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Portland 

HYPERION:   A  Romance.    By  HENRY  WAUSWORTH  LONG 

FELLOW.     i8mo,  30  cents. 

OUTRE-MER.     By  LONGFELLOW.     iSmo,  30  cents. 
KAVANAGH  :    A  Tale.     By  LONGFELLOW.     181110,  30  cents. 

<*£bition. 


UNCLE   TOM'S    CABIN.     By  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 
iSmo. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


KAVANAGH :  A  TALE 

BY    HENRY   WADSWORTH 
LONGFELLOW 


PORTLAND  EDITION 


The  House  in  Portland,  Maine 
where   Longfellow   was  born 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

(€J;c  tiiUccsidc  press,  £ambnb0c 

1893 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872, 


BV   HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TJu  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A, 
Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 

LOAN  STACK 
GIFT 


\n 

/  • 


KAVANAGH 


A    TALE 


The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook, 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it 

SHAKESPEARE 


I       955 


KAVANAGH 


i. 


REAT  men  stand  like  solitary  towers 
in  the  city  of  God,  and  secret  passages 
running  deep  beneath  external  nature  give 
their  thoughts  intercourse  with  higher  intelli 
gences,  which  strengthens  and  consoles  them, 
and  of  which  the  laborers  on  the  surface  do 
not  even  dream ! 

Some  such  thought  as  this  was  floating 
vaguely  through  the  brain  of  Mr.  Churchill, 
as  he  closed  his  school-house  door  behind 
him  ;  and  if  in  any  degree  he  applied  it  to 
himself,  it  may  perhaps  be  pardoned  in  a 
dreamy,  poetic  man  like  him  ;  for  we  judge 
ourselves  by  what  we  feel  capable  of  doing, 
while  others  judge  us  by  what  we  have  al 
ready  done.  And  moreover  his  wife  consid 
ered  him  equal  to  great  things.  To  the  people 
in  the  village,  he  was  the  schoolmaster,  and 


8  Kavanagh 

nothing  more.  They  beheld  in  his  form 
and  countenance  no  outward  sign  of  the  di 
vinity  within.  They  saw  him  daily  moiling 
and  delving  in  the  common  path,  like  a  bee 
tle,  and  little  thought  that  underneath  that 
hard  and  cold  exterior,  lay  folded  delicate 
golden  wings,  wherewith,  when  the  heat  of 
day  was  over,  he  soared  and  revelled  in  the 
pleasant  evening  air. 

To-day  he  was  soaring  and  revelling  be 
fore  the  sun  had  set ;  for  it  was  Saturday. 
With  a  feeling  of  infinite  relief  he  left  behind 
him  the  empty  school-house,  into  which  the 
hot  sun  of  a  September  afternoon  was  pour 
ing.  All  the  bright  young  faces  were  gone  ; 
all  the  impatient  little  hearts  were  gone ;  all 
the  fresh  voices,  shrill,  but  musical  with  the 
melody  of  childhood  were  gone  ;  and  the  late 
ly  busy  realm  was  given  up  to  silence,  and  the 
dusty  sunshine,  and  the  old  gray  flies,  that 
buzzed  and  bumped  their  heads  against  the 
window-panes.  The  sound  of  the  outer  door, 
creaking  on  its  hebdomadal  hinges,  was  like  a 
sentinel's  challenge,  to  which  the  key  growled 
responsive  in  the  lock ;  and  the  master,  cast 
ing  a  furtive  glance  at  the  last  caricature  of 
himself  in  red  chalk  on  the  wooden  fence  close 


A   Tale  9 

V 

by,  entered  with  a  light  step  the  solemn  av 
enue  of  pines  that  led  to  the  margin  of  the 
river. 

At  first  his  step  was  quick  and  nervous ;  and 
he  swung  his  cane  as  if  aiming  blows  at  some  in 
visible  and  retreating  enemy.  Though  a  meek 
man,  there  were  moments  when  he  remembered 
with  bitterness  the  unjust  reproaches  of  fathers 
and  their  insulting  words  ;  and  then  he  fought 
imaginary  battles  with  people  out  of  sight,  and 
struck  them  to  the  ground,  and  trampled  upon 
them  ;  for  Mr.  Churchill  was  not  exempt  from 
the  weakness  of  human  nature,  nor  the  cus 
tomary  vexations  of  a  schoolmaster's  life. 
Unruly  sons  and  unreasonable  fathers  did 
sometimes  embitter  his  else  sweet  days  and 
nights.  But  as  he  walked,  his  step  grew 
slower,  and  his  heart  calmer.  The  coolness 
and  shadows  of  the  great  trees  comforted  and 
satisfied  him,  and  he  heard  the  voice  of  the 
wind  as  it  were  the  voice  of  spirits  calling 
around  him  in  the  air.  So  that  when  he 
emerged  from  the  black  woodlands  into  the 
meadows  by  the  river's  side,  all  his  cares  were 
forgotten. 

He  lay  down  for  a  moment  under  a  syca 
more,  and  thought  of  the  Roman  Consul  Li- 


i  o  Kavanagh 

cinius,  passing  a  night  with  eighteen  of  his 
followers  in  the  hollow  trunk  of  the  great 
Lycian  plane-tree.  From  the  branches  over 
head  the  falling  seeds  were  wafted  away 
through  the  soft  air  on  plumy  tufts  of  down. 
The  continuous  murmur  of  the  leaves  and  of 
the  swift-running  stream  seemed  rather  to 
deepen  than  disturb  the  pleasing  solitude  and 
silence  of  the  place  ;  and  for  a  moment  he 
imagined  himself  far  away  in  the  broad  prai 
ries  of  the  West,  and  lying  beneath  the  luxu 
riant  trees  that  overhang  the  banks  of  the 
Wabash  and  the  Kaskaskia.  He  saw  the 
sturgeon  leap  from  the  river,  and  flash  for 
a  moment  in  the  sunshine.  Then  a  flock  of 
wild-fowl  flew  across  the  sky  towards  the 
sea-mist  that  was  rising  slowly  in  the  east ; 
and  his  soul  seemed  to  float  away  on  the  riv 
er's  current,  till  he  had  glided  far  out  into 
the  measureless  sea,  and  the  sound  of  the 
wind  among  the  leaves  was  no  longer  the 
sound  of  the  wind,  but  of  the  sea. 

Nature  had  made  Mr.  Churchill  a  poet,  but 
destiny  made  him  a  schoolmaster.  This  pro 
duced  a  discord  between  his  outward  and  his 
inward  existence.  Life  presented  itself  to  him 
like  the  Sphinx,  with  its  perpetual  riddle  of 


A    Tale  i : 

the  real  and  the  ideal.  To  the  solution  of  this 
dark  problem  he  devoted  his  days  and  his 
nights.  He  was  forced  to  teach  grammar 
when  he  would  fain  have  written  poems  ;  and 
from  day  to  day,  and  from  year  to  year,  the 
trivial  things  of  life  postponed  the  great  de 
signs,  which  he  felt  capable  of  accomplishing, 
but  never  had  the  resolute  courage  to  begin. 
Thus  he  dallied  with  his  thoughts  and  with 
all  things,  and  wasted  his  strength  on  trifles ; 
like  the  lazy  sea,  that  plays  with  the  peb 
bles  on  its  beach,  but  under  the  inspiration  of 
the  wind  might  lift  great  navies  on  its  out 
stretched  palms,  and  toss  them  into  the  air 
as  playthings. 

The  evening  came.  The  setting  sun  stretched 
his  celestial  rods  of  light  across  the  level  land 
scape,  and,  like  the  Hebrew  in  Egypt,  smote 
the  rivers  and  the  brooks  and  the  ponds,  and 
they  became  as  blood. 

Mr.  Churchill  turned  his  steps  homeward. 
He  climbed  the  hill  with  the  old  windmill  on 
its  summit,  and  below  him  saw  the  lights  of 
the  village  ;  and  around  him  the  great  land 
scape  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  sea 
of  darkness.  He  passed  an  orchard.  The  air 
was  filled  with  the  odor  of  the  fallen  fruit, 


1 2  Kavanagh 

which  seemed  to  him  as  sweet  as  the  fra 
grance  of  the  blossoms  in  June.  A  few  steps 
farther  brought  him  to  an  old  and  neglected 
graveyard  ;  and  he  paused  a  moment  to  look 
at  the  white  gleaming  stone,  under  which 
slumbered  the  old  clergyman,  who  came  into 
the  village  in  the  time  of  the  Indian  wars, 
and  on  which  was  recorded  that  for  half  a  cen 
tury  he  had  been  "  a  painful  preacher  of  the 
word."  He  entered  the  village  street,  and  in 
terchanged  a  few  words  with  Mr.  Pendexter, 
the  venerable  divine,  whom  he  found  standing 
at  his  gate.  He  met,  also,  an  ill-looking  man, 
carrying  so  many  old  boots  that  he  seemed 
literally  buried  in  them  ;  and  at  intervals  en 
countered  a  stream  of  strong  tobacco  smoke, 
exhaled  from  the  pipe  of  an  Irish  laborer,  and 
pervading  the  damp  evening  air.  At  length 
he  reached  his  own  door. 


A    Tale  13 


II. 


WHEN  Mr.  Churchill  entered  his  study, 
he  found  the  lamp  lighted,  and  his  wife 
waiting  for  him.  The  wood  fire  was  singing 
on  the  hearth  like  a  grasshopper  in  the  heat 
and  silence  of  a  summer  noon;  and  to  his 
heart  the  chill  autumnal  evening  became  a 
summer  noon.  His  wife  turned  towards  him 
with  looks  of  love  in  her  joyous  blue  eyes ; 
and  in  the  serene  expression  of  her  face  he 
read  the  Divine  beatitude,  "  Blessed  are  the 
pure  in  heart." 

No  sooner  had  he  seated  himself  by  the  fire 
side  than  the  door  was  swung  wide  open,  and 
on  the  threshold  stood,  with  his  legs  apart,  like 
a  miniature  colossus,  a  lovely,  golden  boy, 
about  three  years  old,  with  long,  light  locks, 
and  very  red  cheeks.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
he  dashed  forward  into  the  room  with  a  shout, 
and  established  himself  in  a  large  arm-chair, 
which  he  converted  into  a  carrier's  wagon,  and 
over  the  back  of  which  he  urged  forward  his 


1 4  Kavanagh 

imaginary  horses.  He  was  followed  by  Lucy, 
the  maid  of  all  work,  bearing  in  her  arms  the 
baby,  with  large,  round  eyes,  and  no  hair.  In 
his  mouth  he  held  an  India-rubber  ring,  and 
looked  very  much  like  a  street-door  knocker. 
He  came  down  to  say  good  night,  but  after  he 
got  down,  could  not  say  it ;  not  being  able  to 
say  anything  but  a  kind  of  explosive  "  Papa ! " 
He  was  then  a  good  deal  kissed  and  tormented 
in  various  ways,  and  finally  sent  off  to  bed 
blowing  little  bubbles  with  his  mouth,  —  Lucy 
blessing  his  little  heart,  and  asseverating  that 
nobody  could  feed  him  in  the  night  without 
loving  him  ;  and  that  if  the  flies  bit  him  any 
more  she  would  pull  out  every  tooth  in  their 
heads  ! 

Then  came  Master  Alfred's  hour  of  triumph 
and  sovereign  sway.  The  fire-light  gleamed 
on  his  hard,  red  cheeks,  and  glanced  from  his 
liquid  eyes,  and  small,  white  teeth.  He  piled 
his  wagon  full  of  books  and  papers,  and  dashed 
off  to  town  at  the  top  of  his  speed  ;  he  deliv 
ered  and  received  parcels  and  letters,  and 
played  the  post-boy's  horn  with  his  lips.  Then 
he  climbed  the  back  of  the  great  chair,  sang 
"  Sweep  ho ! "  as  from  the  top  of  a  very  high 
chimney,  and,  sliding  down  upon  the  cushion, 


A    Tale  1 5 

pretended  to  fall  asleep  in  a  little  white  bed, 
with  white  curtains  ;  from  which  imaginary 
slumber  his  father  awoke  him  by  crying  in  his 
ear,  in  mysterious  tones,  — 

"  What  little  boy  is  this  ! " 

Finally  he  sat  down  in  his  chair  at  his  moth 
er's  knee,  and  listened  very  attentively,  and  for 
the  hundredth  time,  to  the  story  of  the  dog 
Jumper,  which  was  no  sooner  ended,  than  vo 
ciferously  called  for  again  and  again.  On  the 
fifth  repetition,  it  was  cut  as  short  as  the  dog's 
tail  by  Lucy,  who,  having  put  the  baby  to  bed, 
now  came  for  Master  Alfred.  He  seemed  to 
hope  he  had  been  forgotten,  but  was  neverthe 
less  marched  off  without  any  particular  regard 
to  his  feelings,  and  disappeared  in  a  kind  of 
abstracted  mood,  repeating  softly  to  himself  his 
father's  words,  — 

"  Good  night,  Alfred  !  " 

His  father  looked  fondly  after  him  as  he 
went  up  stairs,  holding  Lucy  by  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  rubbing  the  sleep  out  of 
his  eyes. 

"Ah!  these  children,  these  children  !"  said 
Mr.  Churchill,  as  he  sat  down  at  the  tea-table ; 
"we  ought  to  love  them  very  much  now,  for 
we  shall  not  have  them  long  with  us ! " 


1 6  Kavanagh 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  his  wife,  "what 
do  you  mean  ?  Does  anything  ail  them  ?  Are 
they  going  to  die  ? " 

"  I  hope  not.  But  they  are  going  to  grow 
up,  and  be  no  longer  children." 

"  O,  you  foolish  man  !  You  gave  me  such  a 
fright ! " 

"  And  yet  it  seems  impossible  that  they 
should  ever  grow  to  be  men,  and  drag  the 
heavy  artillery  along  the  dusty  roads  of  life." 

"  And  I  hope  they  never  will.  That  is  the 
last  thing  I  want  either  of  them  to  do." 

"  O,  I  do  not  mean  literally,  only  figurative 
ly.  By  the  way,  speaking  of  growing  up  and 
growing  old,  I  saw  Mr.  Pendexter  this  evening, 
as  I  came  home." 

"  And  what  had  he  to  say  ? " 

"  He  told  me  he  should  preach  his  farewell 
sermon  to-morrow." 

"  Poor  old  man  !     I  really  pity  him." 

"  So  do  I.  But  it  must  be  confessed  he  is  a 
dull  preacher ;  and  I  dare  say  it  is  as  dull 
work  for  him  as  for  his  hearers." 

"  Why  are  they  going  to  send  him  away  ? " 

"O,  there  are  a  great  many  reasons.  He 
does  not  give  time  and  attention  enough  to  his 
sermons  and  to  his  parish.  He  is  always  at 


A   Tale  17 

work  on  his  farm  ;  always  wants  his  salary 
raised ;  and  insists  upon  his  right  to  pasture 
his  horse  in  the  parish  fields." 

"  Hark ! "  cried  his  wife,  lifting  up  her  face 
in  a  listening  attitude. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? " 

"  I  thought  I  heard  the  baby ! " 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Mr. 
Churchill  said,  — 

"  It  was  only  the  cat  in  the  cellar." 

At  this  moment  Lucy  came  in.  She  hesi 
tated  a  little,  and  then,  in  a  submissive  voice, 
asked  leave  to  go  down  to  the  village  to  buy 
some  ribbon  for  her  bonnet.  Lucy  was  a  girl 
of  fifteen,  who  had  been  taken  a  few  years  be 
fore  from  an  Orphan  Asylum.  Her  dark  eyes 
had  a  gypsy  look,  and  she  wore  her  brown  hair 
twisted  round  her  head  after  the  manner  of 
some  of  Murillo's  girls.  She  had  Milesian 
blood  in  her  veins,  and  was  impetuous  and  im 
patient  of  contradiction. 

When  she  had  left  the  room,  the  school 
master  resumed  the  conversation  by  say 
ing, — 

"I  do  not  like  Lucy's  going  out  so  much 
in  the  evening.  I  am  afraid  she  will  get  into 
trouble.  She  is  really  very  pretty." 


i8  Kavanagh 

Then  there  was  another  pause,  after  which 
he  added,  — 

"My  dear  wife,  one  thing  puzzles  me  ex 
ceedingly.  " 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"  It  is  to  know  what  that  man  does  with  all 
the  old  boots  he  picks  up  about  the  village. 
I  met  him  again  this  evening.  He  seemed  to 
have  as  many  feet  as  Briareus  had  hands.  He 
is  a  kind  of  centipede." 

"  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Lucy  ? " 

"Nothing.  It  only  occurred  to  me  at  the 
moment ;  and  I  never  can  imagine  what  he 
does  with  so  many  old  boots." 


A   Tale  19 


III. 


WHEN  tea  was  over,  Mr.  Churchill  walked 
to  and  fro  in  his  study,  as  his  custom 
was.  And  as  he  walked,  he  gazed  with  secret 
rapture  at  the  books,  which  lined  the  walls, 
and  thought  how  many  bleeding  hearts  and 
aching  heads  had  found  consolation  for  them 
selves  and  imparted  it  to  others,  by  writing 
those  pages.  The  books  seemed  to  him  al 
most  as  living  beings,  so  instinct  were  they 
with  human  thoughts  and  sympathies.  It  was 
as  if  the  authors  themselves  were  gazing  at 
him  from  the  walls,  with  countenances  neither 
sorrowful  nor  glad,  but  full  of  calm  indifference 
to  fate,  like  those  of  the  poets  who  appeared  to 
Dante  in  his  vision,  walking  together  on  the 
dolorous  shore.  And  then  he  dreamed  of 
fame,  and  thought  that  perhaps  hereafter  he 
might  be  in  some  degree,  and  to  some  one, 
what  these  men  were  to  him  ;  and  in  the  en 
thusiasm  of  the  moment  he  exclaimed  aloud,  — 
"Would  you  have  me  be  like  these,  dear 
Mary?" 


2O  Kavanagh 

"  Like  these  what  ? "  asked  his  wife,  not  com 
prehending  him. 

"  Like  these  great  and  good  men,  —  like 
these  scholars  and  poets,  —  the  authors  of  all 
these  books  ! " 

She  pressed  his  hand  and  said,  in  a  soft,  but 
excited  tone,  — 

"  O,  yes !     Like  them,  only  perhaps  better  ! " 
"Then  I  will  write  a  Romance  !" 
"Write  it!"  said  his  wife,  like  the  angel. 
For  she  believed  that  then  he  would  become 
famous  forever ;  and  that  all  the  vexed  and 
busy  world  would  stand  still  to  hear  him  blow 
his  little  trumpet,  whose  sound  was  to  rend 
the  adamantine  walls  of  time,  and  reach  the 
ears  of  a  far-off  and  startled  posterity. 


A   Tale  21 


IV. 


«  T  WAS  thinking  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Church- 
A  ill  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  as  he  took 
some  papers  from  a  drawer  scented  with  a 
quince,  and  arranged  them  on  the  study  table, 
while  his  wife  as  usual  seated  herself  opposite 
to  him  with  her  work  in  her  hand,  —  "I  was 
thinking  to-day  how  dull  and  prosaic  the  study 
of  mathematics  is  made  in  our  school-books ; 
as  if  the  grand  science  of  numbers  had  been 
discovered  and  perfected  merely  to  further  the 
purposes  of  trade." 

"  For  my  part,"  answered  his  wife,  "  I  do  not 
see  how  you  can  make  mathematics  poetical. 
There  is  no  poetry  in  them." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  very  great  mistake  !  There 
is  something  divine  in  the  science  of  numbers. 
Like  God,  it  holds  the  sea  in  the  hollow  of  its 
hand.  It  measures  the  earth  ;  it  weighs  the 
stars  ;  it  illumines  the  universe ;  it  is  law,  it  is 
order,  it  is  beauty.  And  yet  we  imagine  — 
that  is,  most  of  us  —  that  its  highest  end  and 
culminating  point  is  book-keeping  by  double 


2  2  Kavanagh 

entry.  It  is  our  way  of  teaching  it  that  makes 
it  so  prosaic." 

So  saying,  he  arose,  and  went  to  one  of  his 
book-cases,  from  the  shelf  of  which  he  took 
down  a  little  old  quarto  volume,  and  laid  it 
upon  the  table. 

"  Now  here, "  he  continued,  "  is  a  book  of 
mathematics  of  quite  a  different  stamp  from 
ours." 

"  It  looks  very  old.     What  is  it  ? " 

"It  is  the  Lilawati  of  Bhascara  Acharya, 
translated  from  the  Sanscrit." 

"It  is  a  pretty  name.  Pray  what  does  it 
mean?" 

"  Lilawati  was  the  name  of  Bhascara's 
daughter ;  and  the  book  was  written  to  per 
petuate  it.  Here  is  an  account  of  the  whole 
matter." 

He  then  opened  the  volume,  and  read  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"  It  is  said  that  the  composing  of  Lilawati 
was  occasioned  by  the  following  circumstance. 
Lilawati  was  the  name  of  the  author's  daugh 
ter,  concerning  whom  it  appeared,  from  the 
qualities  of  the  Ascendant  at  her  birth,  that 
she  was  destined  to  pass  her  life  unmarried, 
and  to  remain  without  children.  The  father 


A    Tale  23 

ascertained  a  lucky  hour  for  contracting  her 
in  marriage,  that  she  might  be  firmly  connect 
ed,  and  have  children.  It  is  said  that,  when 
that  hour  approached,  he  brought  his  daugh 
ter  and  his  intended  son  near  him.  He  left 
the  hour-cup  on  the  vessel  of  water,  and  kept 
in  attendance  a  time-knowing  astrologer,  in 
order  that,  when  the  cup  should  subside  in  the 
water,  those  two  precious  jewels  should  be  uni 
ted.  But  as  the  intended  arrangement  was 
not  according  to  destiny,  it  happened  that  the 
girl,  from  a  curiosity  natural  to  children,  looked 
into  the  cup  to  observe  the  water  coming  in  at 
the  hole  ;  when  by  chance  a  pearl  separated 
from  her  bridal  dress,  fell  into  the  cup,  and, 
rolling  down  to  the  hole,  stopped  the  influx  of 
the  water.  So  the  astrologer  waited  in  expec 
tation  of  the  promised  hour.  When  the  ope 
ration  of  the  cup  had  thus  been  delayed  beyond 
all  moderate  time,  the  father  was  in  consterna 
tion,  and  examining,  he  found  that  a  small 
pearl  had  stopped  the  course  of  the  water,  and 
the  long-expected  hour  was  passed.  In  short, 
the  father,  thus  disappointed,  said  to  his  un 
fortunate  daughter,  I  will  write  a  book  of  your 
name,  which  shall  remain  to  the  latest  times, 
—  for  a  good  name  is  a  second  life,  and  the 
groundwork  of  eternal  existence." 


24  Kavanagh 

As  the  schoolmaster  read,  the  eyes  of  his 
wife  dilated  and  grew  tender,  and  she  said,  — 

"What  a  beautiful  story!  When  did  it 
happen  ? " 

"  Seven  hundred  years  ago,  among  the  Hin 
doos." 

"  Why  not  write  a  poem  about  it  ? " 

"Because  it  is  already  a  poem  of  itself, — 
one  of  those  things,  of  which  the  simplest  state 
ment  is  the  best,  and  which  lose  by  embellish 
ment.  The  old  Hindoo  legend,  brown  with 
age,  would  not  please  me  so  well  if  decked  in 
gay  colors,  and  hung  round  with  the  tinkling 
bells  of  rhyme.  Now  hear  how  the  book  be- 
gins." 

Again  he  read  :  — 

"Salutation  to  the  elephant-headed  Being 
who  infuses  joy  into  the  minds  of  his  worship 
pers,  who  delivers  from  every  difficulty  those 
that  call  upon  him,  and  whose  feet  are  rever 
enced  by  the  gods  !  —  Reverence  to  Ganesa, 
who  is  beautiful  as  the  pure  purple  lotos,  and 
around  whose  neck  the  black  curling  snake 
winds  itself  in  playful  folds  !  " 

"  That  sounds  rather  mystical,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Yes,  the  book  begins  with  a  salutation  to 
the  Hindoo  deities,  as  the  old  Spanish  Chron- 


A   Tale  25 

icles  begin  in  the  name  of  God,  and  the  Holy 
Virgin.  And  now  see  how  poetical  some  of 
the  examples  are." 

He  then  turned  over  the  leaves  slowly  and 
read,  — 

"  One  third  of  a  collection  of  beautiful  water- 
lilies  is  offered  to  Mahadev,  one  fifth  to  Huri, 
one  sixth  to  the  Sun,  one  fourth  to  Devi,  and 
six  which  remain  are  presented  to  the  spirit 
ual  teacher.  Required  the  whole  number  of 
water-lilies." 

"  That  is  very  pretty,"  said  the  wife,  "  and 
would  put  it  into  the  boys'  heads  to  bring  you 
pond-lilies." 

"  Here  is  a  prettier  one  still.  One  fifth  of  a 
hive  of  bees  flew  to  the  Kadamba  flower  ;  one 
third  flew  to  the  Silandhara ;  three  times  the 
difference  of  these  two  numbers  flew  to  an 
arbor ;  and  one  bee  continued  flying  about, 
attracted  on  each  side  by  the  fragrant  Ketaki 
and  the  Malati.  What  was  the  number  of  the 
bees  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  I  should  never  be  able  to  tell." 

"Ten  times  the  square  root  of  a  flock  of 
geese " 

Here  Mrs.  Churchill  laughed  aloud ;  but  he 
continued  very  gravely,  — 


26  Kavanagh 

"Ten  times  the  square  root  of  a  flock  of 
geese,  seeing  the  clouds  collect,  flew  to  the 
Manus  lake ;  one  eighth  of  the  whole  flew 
from  the  edge  of  the  water  amongst  a  multi 
tude  of  water-lilies  ;  and  three  couple  were 
observed  playing  in  the  water.  Tell  me,  my 
young  girl  with  beautiful  locks,  what  was  the 
whole  number  of  geese  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  What  should  you  think  ? " 

"  About  twenty." 

"  No,  one  hundred  and  forty-four.  Now  try 
another.  The  square  root  of  half  a  number 
of  bees,  and  also  eight  ninths  of  the  whole, 
alighted  on  the  jasmines,  and  a  female  bee 
buzzed  responsive  to  the  hum  of  the  male 
enclosed  at  night  in  a  water-lily.  O,  beautiful 
damsel,  tell  me  the  number  of  bees." 

"  That  is  not  there.     You  made  it." 

"  No,  indeed  I  did  not.  I  wish  I  had  made 
it.  Look  and  see." 

He  showed  her  the  book,  and  she  read  it 
herself.  He  then  proposed  some  of  the  geo 
metrical  questions. 

"In  a  lake  the  bud  of  a  water-lily  was 
observed,  one  span  above  the  water,  and  when 
moved  by  the  gentle  breeze,  it  sank  in  the 


A   Tale  27 

water  at  two  cubits'  distance.  Required  the 
depth  of  the  water." 

"That  is  charming,  but  must  be  very  diffi 
cult.  I  could  not  answer  it." 

"  A  tree  one  hundred  cubits  high  is  distant 
from  a  well  two  hundred  cubits  ;  from  this  tree 
one  monkey  descends  and  goes  to  the  well ; 
another  monkey  takes  a  leap  upwards,  and 
then  descends  by  the  hypothenuse  ;  and  both 
pass  over  an  equal  space.  Required  the 
height  of  the  leap." 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  can  answer  that 
question  yourself,  without  looking  into  the 
book,"  said  the  laughing  wife,  laying  her  hand 
over  the  solution.  "  Try  it." 

"  With  great  pleasure,  my  dear  child,"  cried 
the  confident  schoolmaster,  taking  a  pencil 
and  paper.  After  making  a  few  figures  and 
calculations,  he  answered,  — 

"  There,  my  young  girl  with  beautiful  locks, 
there  is  the  answer,  —  forty  cubits." 

His  wife  removed  her  hand  from  the  book, 
and  then,  clapping  both  in  triumph,  she  ex 
claimed,  — 

"  No,  you  are  wrong,  you  are  wrong,  my 
beautiful  youth  with  a  bee  in  your  bonnet.  It 
is  fifty  cubits  !  " 


28  Kavanagk 

"  Then  I  must  have  made  some  mistake." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  Your  monkey  did  not 
jump  high  enough." 

She  signalized  his  mortifying  defeat  as  if  it 
had  been  a  victory,  by  showering  kisses,  like 
roses,  upon  his  forehead  and  cheeks,  as  he 
passed  beneath  the  triumphal  archway  of  her 
arms,  trying  in  vain  to  articulate,  — 

"  My  dearest  Lilawati,  what  is  the  whole 
number  of  the  geese  ? " 


A   Tale  29 


V. 


AFTER  extricating  himself  from  this  pleas 
ing  dilemma,  he  said,  — 

"But  I  am  now  going  to  write.  I  must 
really  begin  in  sober  earnest,  or  I  shall  never 
get  anything  finished.  And  you  know  I  have 
so  many  things  to  do,  so  many  books  to  write, 
that  really  I  do  not  know  where  to  begin.  I 
think  I  will  take  up  the  Romance  first." 

"  It  will  not  make  much  difference,  if  you 
only  begin ! " 

"  That  is  true.     I  will  not  lose  a  moment." 

"Did  you  answer  Mr.  Wainwright's  letter 
about  the  cottage  bedstead  ? " 

"  Dear  me,  no !  I  forgot  it  entirely.  That 
must  be  done  first,  or  he  will  make  it  all 
wrong." 

"And  the  young  lady  who  sent  you  the 
poetry  to  look  over  and  criticise  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  have  not  had  a  single  moment's 
leisure.  And  there  is  Mr.  Hanson,  who  wants 
to  know  about  the  cooking-range.  Confound 
it !  there  is  always  something  interfering  with 


3<D  Kavanagh 

my  Romance.  However,  I  will  despatch  those 
matters  very  speedily." 

And  he  began  to  write  with  great  haste. 
For  a  while  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
scratching  of  his  pen.  Then  he  said,  proba 
bly  in  connection  with  the  cooking-range,  — 

"One  of  the  most  convenient  things  in 
housekeeping  is  a  ham.  It  is  always  ready, 
and  always  welcome.  You  can  eat  it  with 
anything  and  without  anything.  It  reminds 
me  always  of  the  great  wild  boar  Scrimner, 
in  the  Northern  Mythology,  who  is  killed 
every  day  for  the  gods  to  feast  on  in  Val 
halla,  and  comes  to  life  again  every  night." 

"  In  that  case,  I  should  think  the  gods 
would  have  the  nightmare,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Perhaps  they  do." 

And  then  another  long  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  skating  of  the  swift  pen  over  the  sheet. 
Presently  Mrs.  Churchill  said,  —  as  if  follow 
ing  out  her  own  train  of  thought,  while  she 
'reased  plying  her  needle  to  bite  off  the 
thread,  which  women  will  sometimes  do  in 
spite  of  all  that  is  said  against  it, — 

"A  man  came  here  to-day,  calling  himself 
the  agent  of  an  extensive  house  in  the  needle 
trade.  He  left  this  sample,  and  said  the  drill 


A    Tale  31 

of  the  eye  was  superior  to  any  other,  and  they 
are  warranted  not  to  cut  the  thread.  He  puts 
them  at  the  wholesale  price ;  and  if  I  do  not 
like  the  sizes,  he  offers  to  exchange  them  for 
others,  either  sharps  or  betweens." 

To  this  remark  the  abstracted  schoolmaster 
vouchsafed  no  reply.  He  found  his  half-dozen 
letters  not  so  easily  answered,  particularly  that 
to  the  poetical  young  lady,  and  worked  away 
busily  at  them.  Finally  they  were  finished 
and  sealed ;  and  he  looked  up  to  his  wife. 
She  turned  her  eyes  dreamily  upon  him. 
Slumber  was  hanging  in  their  blue  orbs,  like 
snow  in  the  heavens,  ready  to  fall.  It  was 
quite  late,  and  he  said  to  her,  — 

"  I  am  too  tired,  my  charming  Lilawati,  and 
you  too  sleepy,  to  sit  here  any  longer  to 
night.  And,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  begin  my  Ro 
mance  without  having  you  at  my  side,  so  that 
I  can  read  detached  passages  to  you  as  I  write, 
I  will  put  it  off  till  to-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

He  watched  his  wife  as  she  went  up  stairs 
with  the  light.  It  was  a  picture  always  new 
and  always  beautiful,  and  like  a  painting  of 
Gherardo  della  Notte.  As  he  followed  her,  he 
paused  to  look  at  the  stars.  The  beauty  of 
the  heavens  made  his  soul  overflow. 


32  Kavanagh 

"  How  absolute,"  he  exclaimed,  "  how  abso 
lute  and  omnipotent  is  the  silence  of  the 
night !  And  yet  the  stillness  seems  almost 
audible  !  From  all  the  measureless  depths  of 
air  around  us  comes  a  half-sound,  a  half-whis 
per,  as  if  we  could  hear  the  crumbling  and 
falling  away  of  earth  and  all  created  things, 
in  the  great  miracle  of  nature,  decay  and  re 
production,  ever  beginning,  never  ending, — 
the  gradual  lapse  and  running  of  the  sand  in 
the  great  hour-glass  of  Time  ! " 

In  the  night,  Mr.  Churchill  had  a  singular 
dream.  He  thought  himself  in  school,  where 
he  was  reading  Latin  to  his  pupils.  Suddenly 
all  the  genitive  cases  of  the  first  declension 
began  to  make  faces  at  him,  and  to  laugh  im 
moderately  ;  and  when  he  tried  to  lay  hold  of 
them,  they  jumped  down  into  the  ablative,  and 
the  circumflex  accent  assumed  the  form  of  a 
great  moustache.  Then  the  little  village  school- 
house  was  transformed  into  a  vast  and  endless 
school-house  of  the  world,  stretching  forward, 
form  after  form,  through  all  the  generations  of 
coming  time  ;  and  on  all  the  forms  sat  young 
men  and  old,  reading  and  transcribing  his  Ro 
mance,  which  now  in  his  dream  was  completed, 
and  smiling  and  passing  it  onward  from  one 


A    Tale  33 

to  another,  till  at  last  the  clock  in  the  corner 
struck  twelve,  and  the  weights  ran  down  with  a 
strange,  angry  whirr,  and  the  school  broke  up ; 
and  the  schoolmaster  awoke  to  find  this  vision 
of  fame  only  a  dream,  out  of  which  his  alarm- 
clock  had  aroused  him  at  an  untimely  hour. 


34  Kavanagh 


VI. 


"IV  /T  E  AN  WHILE,  a  different  scene  was  tak- 
•LYA  ing  place  at  the  parsonage.  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter  had  retired  to  his  study  to  finish  his 
farewell  sermon.  Silence  reigned  through  the 
house.  Sunday  had  already  commenced  there. 
The  week  ended  with  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
and  the  evening  and  the  morning  were  the 
first  day. 

The  clergyman  was  interrupted  in  his  labors 
by  the  old  sexton,  who  called  as  usual  for  the 
key  of  the  church.  He  was  gently  rebuked 
for  coming  so  late,  and  excused  himself  by 
saying  that  his  wife  was  worse. 

•'  Poor  woman  !  "  said  Mr.  Pendexter  ;  "  has 
she  her  mind  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  sexton,  "  as  much  as 
ever." 

"  She  has  been  ill  a  long  time,"  continued 
the  clergyman.  "  We  have  had  prayers  for 
her  a  great  many  Sundays." 

"  It  is  very  true,  sir,"  replied  the  sexton, 
mournfully  ;  "  I  have  given  you  a  great  deal 


A    Tale  35 

of  trouble.  But  you  need  not  pray  for  her 
any  more.  It  is  of  no  use." 

Mr.  Pendexter's  mind  was  in  too  fervid 
a  state  to  notice  the  extreme  and  hopeless 
humility  of  his  old  parishioner,  and  the  unin 
tentional  allusion  to  the  inefficacy  of  his 
prayers.  He  pressed  the  old  man's  hand 
warmly,  and  said,  with  much  emotion,  — 

"To-morrow  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall 
preach  in  this  parish,  where  I  have  preached 
for  twenty-five  years.  But  it  is  not  the  last 
time  I  shall  pray  for  you  and  your  family." 

The  sexton  retired  also  much  moved  ;  and 
the  clergyman  again  resumed  his  task.  His 
heart  glowed  and  burned  within  him.  Often 
his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
so  that  he  could  not  go  on.  Often  he  rose 
and  paced  the  chamber  to  and  fro,  and  wiped 
away  the  large  drops  that  stood  on  his  red 
and  feverish  forehead. 

At  length  the  sermon  was  finished.  He 
rose  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Slowly 
the  clock  struck  twelve.  He  had  not  heard  it 
strike  before,  since  six.  The  moonlight  sil 
vered  the  distant  hills,  and  lay,  white  almost 
as  snow,  on  the  frosty  roofs  of  the  village.  Not 
a  light  could  be  seen  at  any  window. 


36  Kavanagh 

"  Ungrateful  people  !  Could  you  not  watch 
with  me  one  hour  ? "  exclaimed  he,  in  that 
excited  and  bitter  moment ;  as  if  he  had 
thought  that  on  that  solemn  night  the  whole 
parish  would  have  watched,  while  he  was 
writing  his  farewell  discourse.  He  pressed 
his  hot  brow  against  the  window-pane  to 
allay  its  fever ;  and  across  the  tremulous 
wavelets  of  the  river  the  tranquil  moon 
sent  towards  him  a  silvery  shaft  of  light,  like 
an  angelic  salutation.  And  the  consoling 
thought  came  to  him  that  not  only  this 
river,  but  all  rivers  and  lakes,  and  the  great 
sea  itself,  were  flashing  with  this  heavenly 
light,  though  he  beheld  it  as  a  single  ray 
only  ;  and  that  what  to  him  were  the  dark 
waves  were  the  dark  providences  of  God, 
luminous  to  others,  and  even  to  himself  should 
he  change  his  position. 


A   Tale  37 


VIL 

THE  morning  came ;  the  dear,  delicious, 
silent  Sunday ;  to  the  weary  workman, 
both  of  brain  and  hand,  the  beloved  day  of 
rest.  When  the  first  bell  rang,  like  a  brazen 
mortar,  it  seemed  from  its  gloomy  fortress  to 
bombard  the  village  with  bursting  shells  of 
sound,  that  exploded  over  the  houses,  shatter 
ing 'the  ears  of  all  the  parishioners  and  shak 
ing  the  consciences  of  many. 

Mr.  Pendexter  was  to  preach  his  farewell 
sermon.  The  church  was  crowded,  and  only 
one  person  came  late.  It  was  a  modest,  meek 
girl,  who  stole  silently  up  one  of  the  side  aisles, 
—  not  so  silently,  however,  but  that  the  pew- 
door  creaked  a  little  as  she  opened  it ;  and 
straightway  a  hundred  heads  were  turned  in 
that  direction,  although  it  was  in  the  midst  of 
the  prayer.  Old  Mrs.  Fairfield  did  not  turn 
round,  but  she  and  her  daughter  looked  at 
each  other,  and  their  bonnets  made  a  paren 
thesis  in  the  prayer,  within  which  one  asked 
what  that  was,  and  the  other  replied, — 


38  Kavanagh 

"It  is  only  Alice  Archer.  She  always 
comes  late." 

Finally  the  long  prayer  was  ended,  and  the 
congregation  sat  down,  and  the  weary  children 
—  who  are  always  restless  during  prayers,  and 
had  been  for  nearly  half  an  hour  twisting  and 
turning,  and  standing  first  on  one  foot  and 
then  on  the  other,  and  hanging  their  heads 
over  the  backs  of  the  pews,  like  tired  colts 
looking  into  neighboring  pastures  —  settled 
suddenly  down,  and  subsided  into  something 
like  rest. 

The  sermon  began,  —  such  a  sermon  as  had 
never  been  preached,  or  even  heard  of  before. 
It  brought  many  tears  into  the  eyes  of  the 
pastor's  friends,  and  made  the  stoutest  hearts 
among  his  foes  quake  with  something  like 
remorse.  As  he  announced  the  text,  "  Yea, 
I  think  it  meet  as  long  as  I  am  in  this  tab 
ernacle  to  stir  you  up,  by  putting  you  in 
remembrance,"  it  seemed  as  if  the  apostle 
Peter  himself,  from  whose  pen  the  words 
first  proceeded,  were  calling  them  to  judg 
ment. 

He  began  by  giving  a  minute  sketch  of  his 
ministry  and  the  state  of  the  parish,  with  all 
its  troubles  and  dissensions,  social,  political, 


A    Tale  39 

and  ecclesiastical.  He  concluded  by  thank 
ing  those  ladies  who  had  presented  him  with 
a  black  silk  gown,  and  had  been  kind  to  his 
wife  during  her  long  illness  ;  —  by  apologizing 
for  having  neglected  his  own  business,  which 
was  to  study  and  preach,  in  order  to  attend  to 
that  of  the  parish,  which  was  to  support  its 
minister,  —  stating  that  his  own  shortcomings 
had  been  owing  to  theirs,  which  had  driven 
him  into  the  woods  in  winter  and  into  the 
fields  in  summer  ;  —  and  finally  by  telling  the 
congregation  in  general  that  they  were  so 
confirmed  in  their  bad  habits,  that  no  refor 
mation  was  to  be  expected  in  them  under  his 
ministry,  and  that  to  produce  one  would  re 
quire  a  greater  exercise  of  Divine  power  than 
it  did  to  create  the  world  ;  for  in  creating  the 
world  there  had  been  no  opposition,  whereas, 
in  their  reformation,  their  own  obstinacy  and 
evil  propensities,  and  self-seeking,  and  worldly- 
mindedness,  were  all  to  be  overcome ! 


40  Kavanagk 


VIII. 

T17HEN  Mr.  Pendexter  had  finished  his 
*  V  discourse,  and  pronounced  his  last  ben 
ediction  upon  a  congregation  to  whose  spirit 
ual  Wants  he  had  ministered  for  so  many 
years,  his  people,  now  his  no  more,  returned 
home  in  very  various  states  of  mind.  Some 
were  exasperated,  others  mortified,  and  others 
filled  with  pity. 

Among  the  last  was  Alice  Archer,  —  a  fair, 
delicate  girl,  whose  whole  life  had  been  sad 
dened  by  a  too  sensitive  organization,  and  by 
somewhat  untoward  circumstances.  She  had 
a  pale,  transparent  complexion,  and  large  gray 
eyes,  that  seemed  to  see  visions.  Her  figure 
was  slight,  almost  fragile  ;  her  hands  white, 
slender,  diaphanous.  With  these  external  traits 
her  character  was  in  unison.  She  was  thought 
ful,  silent,  susceptible  ;  often  sad,  often  in  tears, 
often  lost  in  reveries.  She  led  a  lonely  life 
with  her  mother,  who  was  old,  querulous,  and 
nearly  blind.  She  had  herself  inherited  a  pre 
disposition  to  blindness  ;  and  in  her  disease 


A    Tale  41 

there  was  this  peculiarity,  that  she  could  see 
in  Summer,  but  in  Winter  the  power  of  vision 
failed  her. 

The  old  house  they  lived  in,  with  its  four 
sickly  Lombardy  poplars  in  front,  suggested 
gloomy  and  mournful  thoughts.  It  was  one  of 
those  houses  that  depress  you  as  you  enter,  as 
if  many  persons  had  died  in  it,  —  sombre,  des 
olate,  silent.  The  very  clock  in  the  hall  had  a 
dismal  sound,  gasping  and  catching  its  breath 
at  times,  and  striking  the  hour  with  a  violent, 
determined  blow,  reminding  one  of  Jael  driv 
ing  the  nail  into  the  head  of  Sisera. 

One  other  inmate  the  house  had,  and  only 
one.  This  was  Sally  Manchester,  or  Miss  Sal 
ly  Manchester,  as  she  preferred  to  be  called ; 
an  excellent  chamber-maid  and  a  very  bad 
cook,  for  she  served  in  both  capacities.  She 
was,  indeed,  an  extraordinary  woman,  of  large 
frame  and  masculine  features  ;  —  one  of  those 
who  are  born  to  work,  and  accept  their  in 
heritance  of  toil  as  if  it  were  play,  and  who 
consequently,  in  the  language  of  domestic  rec 
ommendations,  are  usually  styled  "a  treasure, 
if  you  can  get  her."  A  treasure  she  was  to 
this  family  ;  for  she  did  all  the  housework,  and 
in  addition  took  care  of  the  cow  and  the  poul- 


42  Kavanagh 

try,  —  occasionally  venturing  into  the  field  of 
veterinary  practice,  and  administering  lamp- 
oil  to  the  cock,  when  she  thought  he  crowed 
hoarsely.  She  had  on  her  forehead  what  is 
sometimes  denominated  a  "  widow's  peak,"  — 
that  is  to  say,  her  hair  grew  down  to  a  point 
in  the  middle ;  and  on  Sundays  she  appeared 
at  church  in  a  blue  poplin  gown,  with  a  large 
pink  bow  on  what  she  called  "the  congre 
gation  side  of  her  bonnet"  Her  mind  was 
strong,  like  her  person ;  her  disposition  not 
sweet,  but,  as  is  sometimes  said  of  apples  by 
way  of  recommendation,  a  pleasant  sour. 

Such  were  the  inmates  of  the  gloomy  house,- 
—  from  which  the  last-mentioned  frequently 
expressed  her  intention  of  retiring,  being  en 
gaged  to  a  travelling  dentist,  who,  in  filling 
her  teeth  with  amalgam,  had  seized  the  op 
portunity  to  fill  a  soft  place  in  her  heart  with 
something  still  more  dangerous  and  mercurial. 
The  wedding-day  had  been  from  time  to  time 
postponed,  and  at  length  the  family  hoped  and 
believed  it  never  would  come,  —  a  wish  pro 
phetic  of  its  own  fulfilment. 

Almost  the  only  sunshine  that  from  without 
shone  into  the  dark  mansion  came  from  the 
face  of  Cecilia  Vaughan,  the  school-mate  and 


A    Tale  43 

bosom-friend  of  Alice  Archer.  They  were 
nearly  of  the  same  age,  and  had  been  drawn 
together  by  that  mysterious  power  which 
discovers  and  selects  friends  for  us  in  our 
childhood.  They  sat  together  in  school ;  they 
walked  together  after  school ;  they  told  each 
other  their  manifold  secrets ;  they  wrote  long 
and  impassioned  letters  to  each  other  in  the 
evening  ;  in  a  word,  they  were  in  love  with 
each  other.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  a  rehearsal 
in  girlhood  of  the  great  drama  of  woman's 
life. 


44  Kavanagh 


IX. 


golden  tints  of  Autumn  now  bright- 
ened  the  shrubbery  around  this  melan 
choly  house,  and  took  away  something  of 
its  gloom.  The  four  poplar  trees  seemed  all 
ablaze,  and  flickered  in  the  wind  like  huge 
torches.  The  little  border  of  box  filled  the  air 
with  fragrance,  and  seemed  to  welcome  the  re 
turn  of  Alice,  as  she  ascended  the  steps,  and 
entered  the  house  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
usual.  The  brisk  autumnal  air  had  quickened 
her  pulse  and  given  a  glow  to  her  cheek. 

She  found  her  mother  alone  in  the  parlor, 
seated  in  her  large  arm-chair.  The  warm  sun 
streamed  in  at  the  uncurtained  windows  ;  and 
lights  and  shadows  from  the  leaves  lay  upon 
her  face.  She  turned  her  head  as  Alice  en 
tered,  and  said,  — 

"  Who  is  it  ?     Is  it  you,  Alice  ? " 

"  Yes,  it  is  I,  mother." 

"  Where  have  you  been  so  long  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  nowhere,  dear  mother.  I 
have  come  directly  home  from  church." 


A    Tale  45 

"  How  long  it  seems  to  me  !  It  is  very  late. 
It  is  growing  quite  dark.  I  was  just  going  to 
call  for  the  lights." 

"  Why,  mother ! "  exclaimed  Alice,  in  a 
startled  tone  ;  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  The 
sun  is  shining  directly  into  your  face  ! " 

"Impossible,  my  dear  Alice.  It  is  quite 
dark.  I  cannot  see  you.  Where  are  you  ? " 

She  leaned  over  her  mother  and  kissed  her. 
Both  were  silent,  —  both  wept.  They  knew 
that  the  hour,  so  long  looked  forward  to  with 
dismay,  had  suddenly  come.  Mrs.  Archer  was 
blind  ! 

This  scene  of  sorrow  was  interrupted  by  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  Sally  Manchester.  She, 
too,  was  in  tears  ;  but  she  was  weeping  for 
her  own  affliction.  In  her  hand  she  held  an 
open  letter,  which  she  gave  to  Alice,  exclaim 
ing  amid  sobs,  — 

"  Read  this,  Miss  Archer,  and  see  how  false 
man  can  be  !  Never  trust  any  man  !  They 
are  all  alike ;  they  are  all  false — false  — false ! " 

Alice  took  the  letter  and  read  as  follows  :  — 

"  It  is  with  pleasure,  Miss  Manchester,  I  sit 
down  to  write  you  a  few  lines.  I  esteem  you 
as  highly  as  ever,  but  Providence  has  seemed 
to  order  and  direct  my  thoughts  and  affections 


46  Kavanagk 

to  another,  —  one  in  my  own  neighborhood. 
It  was  rather  unexpected  to  me.  Miss  Man 
chester,  I  suppose  you  are  well  aware  that  we, 
as  professed  Christians,  ought  to  be  resigned 
to  our  lot  in  this  world.  May  God  assist  you, 
so  that  we  may  be  prepared  to  join  the  great 
company  in  heaven.  Your  answer  would  be 
very  desirable.  I  respect  your  virtue,  and  re 
gard  you  as  a  friend. 

"MARTIN  CHERRYFIELD. 

"  P.  S.  The  society  is  generally  pretty  good 
here,  but  the  state  of  religion  is  quite  low/' 

"  That  is  a  cruel  letter,  Sally, "  said  Alice, 
as  she  handed  it  back  to  her.  "  But  we  all 
have  our  troubles.  That  man  is  unworthy  of 
you.  Think  no  more  about  him." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Archer, 
hearing  the  counsel  given  and  the  sobs  with 
which  it  was  received.  "  Sally,  what  is  the 
matter?" 

Sally  made  no  answer  ;  but  Alice  said,  — 

"Mr.  Cherryfield  has  fallen  in  love  with 
somebody  else." 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  said  Mrs.  Archer,  evidently 
relieved.  "She  ought  to  be  very  glad  of  it. 
Why  does  she  want  to  be  married  ?  She  had 


A    Tale  47 

much  better  stay  with  us ;  particularly  now 
that  I  am  blind." 

When  Sally  heard  this  last  word,  she  looked 
up  in  consternation.  In  a  moment  she  forgot 
her  own  grief  to  sympathize  with  Alice  and 
her  mother.  She  wanted  to  do  a  thousand 
things  at  once  ;  — to  go  here ; — to  send  there; 
—  to  get  this  and  that ;  —  and  particularly  to 
call  all  the  doctors  in  the  neighborhood.  Alice 
assured  her  it  would  be  of  no  avail,  though  she 
finally  consented  that  one  should  be  sent  for. 

Sally  went  in  search  of  him.  On  her  way, 
her  thoughts  reverted  to  herself;  and,  to  use 
her  own  phrase,  "she  curbed  in  like  a  stage- 
horse,"  as  she  walked.  This  state  of  haughty 
and  offended  pride  continued  for  some  hours 
after  her  return  home.  Later  in  the  day,  she 
assumed  a  decent  composure,  and  requested 
that  the  man  —  she  scorned  to  name  him  — 
might  never  again  be  mentioned  in  her  hear 
ing.  Thus  was  her  whole  dream  of  felicity 
swept  away  by  the  tide  of  fate,  as  the  nest  of  a 
ground-swallow  by  an  inundation.  It  had  been 
built  too  low  to  be  secure. 

Some  women,  after  a  burst  of  passionate 
tears,  are  soft,  gentle,  affectionate ;  a  warm 
and  genial  air  succeeds  the  rain.  Others  cleai 


48  Kavanagh 

up  cold,  and  are  breezy,  bleak,  and  dismal. 
Of  the  latter  class  was  Sally  Manchester. 
She  became  embittered  against  all  men  on 
account  of  one ;  and  was  often  heard  to  say 
that  she  thought  women  were  fools  to  be  mar 
ried,  and  that,  for  one,  she  would  not  marry 
any  man,  let  him  be  who  he  might,  —  not  she ! 
The  village  doctor  came.  He  was  a  large 
man,  of  the  cheerful  kind  ;  vigorous,  florid,  en 
couraging  ;  and  pervaded  by  an  indiscriminate 
odor  of  drugs.  Loud  voice,  large  cane,  thick 
boots  ;  —  everything  about  him  synonymous 
with  noise.  His  presence  in  the  sick-room 
was  like  martial  music,  —  inspiriting,  but  loud. 
He  seldom  left  it  without  saying  to  the  pa 
tient,  "  I  hope  you  will  feel  more  comfortable 
to-morrow, "  or,  "  When  your  fever  leaves  you, 
you  will  be  better."  But,  in  this  instance,  he 
could  not  go  so  far.  Even  his  hopefulness 
was  not  sufficient  for  the  emergency.  Mrs. 
Archer  was  blind,  —  beyond  remedy,  beyond 
hope,  —  irrevocably  blind ! 


A    Tale  49 


X. 


ON  the  following  morning,  very  early,  as 
the  schoolmaster  stood  at  his  door,  in 
haling  the  bright,  wholesome  air,  and  behold 
ing  the  shadows  of  the  rising  sun,  and  the 
flashing  dew-drops  on  the  red  vine-leaves,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  saw  Mr.  Pen- 
dexter  and  his  wife  drive  down  the  village 
street  in  their  old-fashioned  chaise,  known  by 
all  the  boys  in  town  as  "  the  ark."  The  old 
white  horse,  that  for  so  many  years  had 
stamped  at  funerals,  and  gnawed  the  tops  of 
so  many  posts,  and  imagined  he  killed  so 
many  flies  because  he  wagged  the  stump  of  a 
tail,  and,  finally,  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much 
discord  in  the  parish,  seemed  now  to  make 
common  cause  with  his  master,  and  stepped  as 
if  endeavoring  to  shake  the  dust  from  his  feet 
as  he  passed  out  of  the  ungrateful  village. 
Under  the  axle-tree  hung  suspended  a  leather 
trunk  ;  and  in  the  chaise,  between  the  two  oc 
cupants,  was  a  large  bandbox  which  forced 
Mr.  Pendexter  to  let  his  legs  hang  out  of  the 


50  Kavanagk 

vehicle,  and  gave  him  the  air  of  imitating  the 
Scriptural  behavior  of  his  horse.  Gravely  and 
from  a  distance  he  saluted  the  schoolmaster, 
who  saluted  him  in  return,  with  a  tear  in  his 
eye,  that  no  man  saw,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
was  not  unseen. 

"  Farewell,  poor  old  man  !  "  said  the  school 
master  within  himself,  as  he  shut  out  the  cold 
autumnal  air,  and  entered  his  comfortable 
study.  "We  are  not  worthy  of  thee,  or  we 
should  have  had  thee  with  us  forever.  Go 
back  again  to  the  place  of  thy  childhood,  the 
scene  of  thine  early  labors  and  thine  early 
love  ;  let  thy  days  end  where  they  began,  and 
like  the  emblem  of  eternity,  let  the  serpent  of 
life  coil  itself  round  and  take  its  tail  into  its 
mouth,  and  be  still  from  all  its  hissings  for  ev 
ermore  !  I  would  not  call  thee  back  ;  for  it  is 
better  thou  shouldst  be  where  thou  art,  than 
amid  the  angry  contentions  of  this  little  town." 

Not  all  took  leave  of  the  old  clergyman  in  so 
kindly  a  spirit.  Indeed,  there  was  a  pretty 
general  feeling  of  relief  in  the  village,  as  when 
one  gets  rid  of  an  ill-fitting  garment,  or  old- 
fashioned  hat,  which  one  neither  wishes  to 
wear,  nor  is  quite  willing  to  throw  away. 

Thus  Mr.  Pendexter  departed  from  the  vil- 


A    Tale  51 

lage.  A  few  days  afterwards  he  was  seen  at  a 
fall  training,  or  general  muster  of  the  militia, 
making  a  prayer  on  horseback,  with  his  eyes 
wide  open ;  a  performance  in  which  he  took 
evident  delight,  as  it  gave  him  an  opportunity 
of  going  quite  at  large  into  some  of  the  blood 
iest  campaigns  of  the  ancient  Hebrews. 


52  Kavanagk 


XL 


FOR  a  while  the  schoolmaster  walked  to 
and  fro,  looking  at  the  gleam  of  the  sun 
shine  on  the  carpet,  and  revelling  in  his  day 
dreams  of  unwritten  books,  and  literary  fame. 
With  these  day-dreams  mingled  confusedly  the 
pattering  of  little  feet,  and  the  murmuring  and 
cooing  of  his  children  overhead.  His  plans 
that  morning,  could  he  have  executed  them, 
would  have  filled  a  shelf  in  his  library  with  po 
ems  and  romances  of  his  own  creation.  But 
suddenly  the  vision  vanished ;  and  another 
from  the  actual  world  took  its  place.  It  was 
the  canvas-covered  cart  of  the  butcher,  that, 
like  the  flying  wigwam  of  the  Indian  tale,  flit 
ted  before  his  eyes.  It  drove  up  the  yard  and 
stopped  at  the  back  door ;  and  the  poet  felt 
that  the  sacred  rest  of  Sunday,  the  God's-truce 
with  worldly  cares,  was  once  more  at  an  end. 
A  dark  hand  passed  between  him  and  the  land 
of  light.  Suddenly  closed  the  ivory  gate  of 
dreams,  and  the  horn  gate  of  every-day  life 
opened,  and  he  went  forth  to  deal  with  the 

anH  hlnnrl 


A   Tale  53 

"Alas ! "  said  he  with  a  sigh  ;  "  and  must  my 
life,  then,  always  be  like  the  Sabbatical  river  of 
the  Jews,  flowing  in  full  stream  only  on  the 
seventh  day,  and  sandy  and  arid  all  the  rest  ? " 

Then  he  thought  of  his  beautiful  wife  and 
children,  and  added,  half  aloud,  — 

"  No  ;  not  so  !  Rather  let  me  look  upon  the 
seven  days  of  the  week  as  the  seven  magic 
rings  of  Jarchas,  each  inscribed  with  the  name 
of  a  separate  planet,  and  each  possessing  a  pe 
culiar  power  ;  —  or,  as  the  seven  sacred  and 
mysterious  stones  which  the  pilgrims  of  Mecca 
were  forced  to  throw  over  their  shoulders  in 
the  valleys  of  Menah  and  Akbah,  cursing  the 
devil  and  saying  at  each  throw,  '  God  is 
great!'" 

He  found  Mr.  Wilmerdings,  the  butcher, 
standing  beside  his  cart,  and  surrounded  by 
five  cats,  that  had  risen  simultaneously  on  their 
hind  legs,  to  receive  their  quotidian  morning's 
meal.  Mr.  Wilmerdings  not  only  supplied  the 
village  with  fresh  provisions  daily,  but  he  like 
wise  weighed  all  the  babies.  There  was  hard 
ly  a  child  in  town  that  had  not  hung  beneath 
his  steelyards,  tied  in  a  silk  handkerchief,  the 
movable  weight  above  sliding  along  the  notched 
beam  from  eight  pounds  to  twelve.  He  was  a 


54  Kavanagh 

young  man  with  a  very  fresh  and  rosy  complex 
ion,  and  every  Monday  morning  he  appeared 
dressed  in  an  exceedingly  white  frock.  He 
had  lately  married  a  milliner,  who  sold  "  Dun- 
stable  and  eleven-braid,  openwork  and  colored 
straws,"  and  their  bridal  tour  had  been  to  a 
neighboring  town  to  see  a  man  hanged  for 
murdering  his  wife.  A  pair  of  huge  ox-horns 
branched  from  the  gable  of  his  slaughter 
house  ;  and  near  it  stood  the  great  pits  of  the 
tannery,  which  all  the  school-boys  thought 
were  rilled  with  blood  ! 

Perhaps  no  two  men  could  be  more  unlike 
than  Mr.  Churchill  and  Mr.  Wilmerdings. 
Upon  such  a  grating  iron  hinge  opened  the 
door  of  his  daily  life  ;  —  opened  into  the  school 
room,  the  theatre  of  those  life-long  labors,  which 
theoretically  are  the  most  noble,  and  practical 
ly  the  most  vexatious  in  the  world.  Toward 
this,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  and  he  had 
played  a  while  with  his  children,  he  directed 
his  steps.  On  his  way,  he  had  many  glimpses 
into  the  lovely  realms  of  Nature,  and  one  into 
those  of  Art,  through  the  medium  of  a  placard 
pasted  against  a  wall.  It  was  as  follows  :  — 

"  The  subscriber  professes  to  take  profiles, 
plain  and  shaded,  which,  viewed  at  right-an- 


A   Tale  55 

gles  with  the  serious   countenance,  are  war 
ranted  to  be  infallibly  correct. 

"  No  trouble  of  adorning  or  dressing  the  per 
son  is  required.  He  takes  infants  and  children 
at  sight,  and  has  frames  of  all  sizes  to  accom 
modate. 

"A  profile  is  a  delineated  outline  of  the  ex 
terior  form  of  any  person's  face  and  head,  the 
use  of  which  when  seen  tends  to  vivify  the  af 
fections  of  those  whom  we  esteem  or  love. 

WILLIAM  BANTAM." 

Erelong  even  this  glimpse  into  the  ideal 
world  had  vanished  ;  and  he  felt  himself  bound 
to  the  earth  with  a  hundred  invisible  threads, 
by  which  a  hundred  urchins  were  tugging  and 
tormenting  him  ;  and  it  was  only  with  consid 
erable  effort,  and  at  intervals,  that  his  mind 
could  soar  to  the  moral  dignity  of  his  profes 
sion. 

Such  was  the  schoolmaster's  life;  and  a 
dreary,  weary  life  it  would  have  been,  had  not 
poetry  from  within  gushed  through  every  crack 
and  crevice  in  it.  This  transformed  it,  and 
made  it  resemble  a  well,  into  which  stones  and 
rubbish  have  been  thrown  ;  but  underneath  is 
a  spring  of  fresh,  pure  water,  which  nothing 
external  can  ever  check  or  defile. 


56  Kavanagh 


XII. 

MR.  PENDEXTER  had  departed.  Only 
a  few  old  and  middle-aged  people  re 
gretted  him.  To  these  few,  something  was 
wanting  in  the  service  ever  afterwards.  They 
missed  the  accounts  of  the  Hebrew  massacres, 
and  the  wonderful  tales  of  the  Zumzummims  ; 
they  missed  the  venerable  gray  hair,  and  the 
voice  that  had  spoken  to  them  in  childhood, 
and  forever  preserved  the  memory  of  it  in 
their  hearts,  as  in  the  Russian  Church  the  old 
hymns  of  the  earliest  centuries  are  still  piously 
retained. 

The  winter  came,  with  all  its  affluence  of 
snows,  and  its  many  candidates  for  the  vacant 
pulpit.  But  the  parish  was  difficult  to  please, 
as  all  parishes  are  ;  and  talked  of  dividing  it 
self,  and  building  a  new  church,  and  other 
extravagances,  as  all  parishes  do.  Finally  it 
concluded  to  remain  as  it  was,  and  the  choice 
of  a  pastor  was  made. 

The  events  of  the  winter  were  few  in  num 
ber,  and  can  be  easily  described.  The  follow- 


A   Tale  57 

ing  extract  from  a  school-girl's  letter  to  an 
absent  friend  contains  the  most  important :  — 

"At  school,  things  have  gone  on  pretty 
much  as  usual.  Jane  Brown  has  grown  very 
pale.  They  say  she  is  in  a  consumption  ;  but  I 
think  it  is  because  she  eats  so  many  slate-pen 
cils.  One  of  her  shoulders  has  grown  a  good 
deal  higher  than  the  other.  Billy  Wilmerdings 
has  been  turned  out  of  school  for  playing  tru 
ant.  He  promised  his  mother,  if  she  would 
not  whip  him,  he  would  experience  religion. 
I  am  sure  I  wish  he  would ;  for  then  he  would 
stop  looking  at  me  through  the  hole  in  the  top 
of  his  desk.  Mr.  Churchill  is  a  very  curious 
man.  To-day  he  gave  us  this  question  in 
arithmetic :  '  One  fifth  of  a  hive  of  bees  flew 
to  the  Kadamba  flower  ;  one  third  flew  to 
the  Silandhara  ;  three  times  the  difference  of 
these  two  numbers  flew  to  an  arbor ;  and  one 
bee  continued  flying  about,  attracted  on  each 
side  by  the  fragrant  Ketaki  and  the  Malati. 
What  was  the  number  of  bees  ? '  Nobody 
could  do  the  sum. 

"  The  church  has  been  repaired,  and  we 
have  a  new  mahogany  pulpit.  Mr.  Churchill 
bought  the  old  one,  and  had  it  put  up  in  his 
study.  What  a  strange  man  he  is !  A  good 


58  Kavanagh 

many  candidates  have  preached  for  us.  The 
only  one  we  like  is  Mr.  Kavanagh.  Arthur 
Kavanagh !  is  not  that  a  romantic  name  ?  He 
is  tall,  very  pale,  with  beautiful  black  eyes  and 
hair !  Sally  —  Alice  Archer's  Sally — says  '  he 
is  not  a  man  ;  he  is  a  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw  ! ' 
I  think  he  is  very  handsome.  And  such  ser 
mons  !  So  beautifully  written,  so  different 
from  old  Mr.  Pendexter's !  He  has  been  in 
vited  to  settle  here  ;  but  he  cannot  come  till 
Spring.  Last  Sunday  he  preached  about  the 
ruling  passion.  He  said  that  once  a  German 
nobleman,  when  he  was  dying,  had  his  hunt 
ing-horn  blown  in  his  bed-room,  and  his 
hounds  let  in,  springing  and  howling  about 
him  ;  and  that  so  it  was  with  the  ruling  pas 
sions  of  men  ;  even  around  the  death-bed,  at 
the  well-known  signal,  they  howled  and  leaped 
about  those  that  had  fostered  them !  Beauti 
ful,  is  it  not  ?  and  so  original !  He  said  in 
another  sermon,  that  disappointments  feed 
and  nourish  us  in  the  desert  places  of  life, 
as  the  ravens  did  the  Prophet  in  the  wilder 
ness  ;  and  that  as,  in  Catholic  countries,  the 
lamps  lighted  before  the  images  of  saints,  in 
narrow  and  dangerous  streets,  not  only  served 
as  offerings  of  devotion,  but  likewise  as  lights 


A    Tale  59 

to  those  who  passed,  so,  in  the  dark  and  dis 
mal  streets  of  the  city  of  Unbelief,  every  good 
thought,  word,  and  deed  of  a  man,  not  only 
was  an  offering  to  heaven,  but  likewise  served 
to  light  him  and  others  on  their  way  home 
ward  !  I  have  taken  a  good  many  notes  of 
Mr.  Kavanagh's  sermons,  which  you  shall  see 
when  you  come  back. 

"  Last  week  we  had  a  sleigh-ride,  with  six 
white  horses.  We  went  like  the  wind  over 
the  hollows  in  the  snow  ;  —  the  driver  called 
them  '  thank-you-ma'ams, '  because  they  made 
everybody  bow.  And  such  a  frantic  ball  as 
we  had  at  Beaverstock  !  I  wish  you  had  been 
there !  We  did  not  get  home  till  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning ;  and  the  next  day  Hester 
Green's  minister  asked  her  if  she  did  not  feel 
the  fire  of  a  certain  place  growing  hot  under 
her  feet,  while  she  was  dancing  ! 

"  The  new  fashionable  boarding-school  be 
gins  next  week.  The  prospectus  has  been 
sent  to  .our  house.  One  of  the  regulations 
is,  '  Young  ladies  are  not  allowed  to  cross 
their  benders  in  school ' !  Papa  says  he  never 
heard  knees  called  so  before.  Old  Mrs.  Plain- 
field  is  gone  at  last.  Just  before  she  died,  her 
Irish  chamber-maid  asked  her  if  she  wanted  to 


60  Kavanagh 

be  buried  with  her  false  teeth  !  There  has  not 
been  a  single  new  engagement  since  you  went 
away.  But  somebody  asked  me  the  other  day 
if  you  were  engaged  to  Mr.  Pillsbury.  I  was 
very  angry.  Pillsbury,  indeed !  He  is  old 
enough  to  be  your  father ! 

"  What  a  long,  rambling  letter  I  am  writing 
you !  —  and  only  because  you  will  be  so  naugh 
ty  as  to  stay  away  and  leave  me  all  alone.  If 
you  could  have  seen  the  moon  last  night !  But 
what  a  goose  I  am  !  —  as  if  you  did  not  see  it ! 
Was  it  not  glorious?  You  cannot  imagine, 
dearest,  how  every  hour  in  the  day  I  wish  you 
were  here  with  me.  I  know  you  would  sym 
pathize  with  all  my  feelings,  which  Hester 
does  not  at  all.  For,  if  I  admire  the  moon, 
she  says  I  am  romantic,  and,  for  her  part,  if 
there  is  anything  she  despises,  it  is  the  moon ! 
and  that  she  prefers  a  snug,  warm  bed  (O,  hor 
rible  !)  to  all  the  moons  in  the  universe  ! " 


A   Tale  61 


XIII. 

THE  events  mentioned  in  this  letter  were 
the  principal  ones  that  occurred  during 
the  winter.  The  case  of  Billy  Wilmerdings 
grew  quite  desperate.  In  vain  did  his  father 
threaten  and  the  schoolmaster  expostulate ; 
he  was  only  the  more  sullen  and  stubborn. 
In  vain  did  his  mother  represent  to  his  weary 
mind,  that,  if  he  did  not  study,  the  boys  who 
knew  the  dead  languages  would  throw  stones 
at  him  in  the  street ;  he  only  answered  that  he 
should  like  to  see  them  try  it.  Till,  finally, 
having  lost  many  of  his  illusions,  and  having 
even  discovered  that  his  father  was  not  the 
greatest  man  in  the  world,  on  the  breaking  up 
of  the  ice  in  the  river,  to  his  own  infinite  re 
lief  and  that  of  the  whole  village,  he  departed 
on  a  coasting  trip  in  a  fore-and-aft  schooner, 
which  constituted  the  entire  navigation  of  Fair- 
meadow. 

Mr.  Churchill  had  really  put  up  in  his  study 
the  old  white  pulpit,  shaped  like  a  wine-glass. 
It  served  as  a  play-house  for  his  children,  who, 


62  Kavanagh 

whether  in  it  or  out  of  it,  daily  preached  to  his 
heart,  and  were  a  living  illustration  of  the  way 
to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  More 
over,  he  himself  made  use  of  it  externally  as  a 
note-book,  recording  his  many  meditations  with 
a  pencil  on  the  white  panels.  The  following 
will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  this  pulpit  elo 
quence  :  — 

Morality  without  religion  is  only  a  kind  of 
dead-reckoning,  —  an  endeavor  to  find  our 
place  on  a  cloudy  sea  by  measuring  the  dis 
tance  we  have  run,  but  without  any  observa 
tion  of  the  heavenly  bodies. 

Many  readers  judge  of  the  power  of  a  book 
by  the  shock  it  gives  their  feelings,  —  as  some 
savage  tribes  determine  the  power  of  muskets 
by  their  recoil  ;  that  being  considered  best 
which  fairly  prostrates  the  purchaser. 

Men  of  genius  are  often  dull  and  inert  in 
society  ;  as  the  blazing  meteor,  when  it  de 
scends  to  earth,  is  only  a  stone. 

The  natural  alone  is  permanent.  Fantastic 
idols  may  be  worshipped  for  a  while ;  but  at 


A    Tale  63 

length  they  are  overturned  by  the  continual 
and  silent  progress  of  Truth,  as  the  grim  stat 
ues  of  Copan  have  been  pushed  from  their 
pedestals  by  the  growth  of  forest-trees,  whose 
seeds  were  sown  by  the  wind  in  the  ruined 
walls. 

The  every-day  cares  and  duties,  which  men 
call  drudgery,  are  the  weights  and  counter 
poises  of  the  clock  of  time,  giving  its  pendu 
lum  a  true  vibration,  and  its  hands  a  regular 
motion  ;  and  when  they  cease  to  hang  upon 
the  wheels,  the  pendulum  no  longer  swings, 
the  hands  no  longer  move,  the  clock  stands 
still. 

The  same  object,  seen  from  the  three  differ 
ent  points  of  view,  —  the  Past,  the  Present, 
and  the  Future,  —  often  exhibits  three  differ 
ent  faces  to  us ;  like  those  sign-boards  over 
shop  doors,  which  represent  the  face  of  a  lion 
as  we  approach,  of  a  man  when  we  are  in 
front,  and  of  an  ass  when  we  have  passed. 

In  character,  in  manners,  in  style,  in  all 
things,  the  supreme  excellence  is  simplicity. 


64  Kavanagh 

With  many  readers,  brilliancy  of  style  passes 
for  affluence  of  thought;  they  mistake  but 
tercups  in  the  grass  for  immeasurable  gold 
mines  under  ground. 

The  motives  and  purposes  of  authors  are  not 
always  so  pure  and  high  as,  in  the  enthusiasm 
of  youth,  we  sometimes  imagine.  To  many 
the  trumpet  of  fame  is  nothing  but  a  tin  horn 
to  call  them  home,  like  laborers  from  the  field, 
at  dinner-time ;  and  they  think  themselves 
lucky  to  get  the  dinner. 

The  rays  of  happiness,  like  those  of  light, 
are  colorless  when  unbroken. 

Critics  are  sentinels  in  the  grand  army  of 
letters,  stationed  at  the  corners  of  newspapers 
and  reviews,  to  challenge  every  new  author. 

The  country  is  lyric,  —  the  town  dramatic. 
When  mingled,  they  make  the  most  perfect 
musical  drama. 

Our  passions  never  wholly  die  ;  but  in  the 
last  cantos  of  life's  romantic  epos,  they  rise  up 
again  and  do  battle,  like  some  of  Ariosto's  he- 


A    Tale  65 

roes,  who  have  already  been  quietly  interred, 
and  ought  to  be  turned  to  dust. 

This  country  is  not  priest-ridden,  but  press- 
ridden. 

Some  critics  have  the  habit  of  rowing  up 
the  Heliconian  rivers  with  their  backs  turned, 
so  as  to  see  the  landscape  precisely  as  the 
poet  did  not  see  it.  Others  see  faults  in  a 
book  much  larger  than  the  book  itself;  as 
Sancho  Panza,  with  his  eyes  blinded,  beheld 
from  his  wooden  horse  the  earth  no  larger 
than  a  grain  of  mustard-seed,  and  the  men 
and  women  on  it  as  large  as  hazel-nuts. 

Like  an  inundation  of  the  Indus  is  the 
course  of  Time.  We  look  for  the  homes  of 
our  childhood,  they  are  gone  ;  for  the  friends 
of  our  childhood,  they  are  gone.  The  loves 
and  animosities  of  youth,  where  are  they  ? 
Swept  away  like  the  camps  that  had  been 
pitched  in  the  sandy  bed  of  the  river. 

As  no  saint  can  be  canonized  until  thf 
Devil's  Advocate  has  exposed  all  his  evi. 
deeds,  and  showed  why  he  should  not  b( 


66  Kavanagh 

made  a  saint,  so  no  poet  can  take  his  station 
among  the  gods  until  the  critics  have  said  all 
that  can  be  said  against  him. 

It  is  curious  to  note  the  old  sea-margins  of 
human  thought !  Each  subsiding  century  re 
veals  some  new  mystery ;  we  build  where 
monsters  used  to  hide  themselves. 


A   Tale  67 


XIV. 

AT  length  the  Spring  came,  and  brought 
the  birds,  and  the  flowers,  and  Mr.  Kav- 
anagh,  the  new  clergyman,  who  was  ordained 
with  all  the  pomp  and  ceremony  usual  on  such 
occasions.  The  opening  of  the  season  fur 
nished  also  the  theme  of  his  first  discourse, 
which  some  of  the  congregation  thought  very 
beautiful,  and  others  very  incomprehensible. 

Ah,  how  wonderful  is  the  advent  of  the 
Spring !  —  the  great  annual  miracle  of  the 
blossoming  of  Aaron's  rod,  repeated  on  myr 
iads  and  myriads  of  branches  !  —  the  gentle 
progression  and  growth  of  herbs,  flowers,  trees, 
—  gentle,  and  yet  irrepressible,  —  which  no 
force  can  stay,  no  violence  restrain,  like  love, 
that  wins  its  way  and  cannot  be  withstood  by 
any  human  power,  because  itself  is  divine  pow 
er.  If  Spring  came  but  once  a  century,  instead 
of  once  a  year,  or  burst  forth  with  the  sound  of 
an  earthquake,  and  not  in  silence,  what  wonder 
and  expectation  would  there  be  in  all  hearts  to 
behold  the  miraculous  change  ! 


68  Kavanagh 

But  now  the  silent  succession  suggests  noth 
ing  but  necessity.  To  most  men,  only  the  ces 
sation  of  the  miracle  would  be  miraculous,  and 
the  perpetual  exercise  of  God's  power  seems 
less  wonderful  than  its  withdrawal  would  be. 
We  are  like  children  who  are  astonished  and 
delighted  only  by  the  second-hand  of  the  clock, 
not  by  the  hour-hand. 

Such  was  the  train  of  thought  with  which 
Kavanagh  commenced  his  sermon.  And  then, 
with  deep  solemnity  and  emotion,  he  proceeded 
to  speak  of  the  Spring  of  the  soul,  as  from  its 
cheerless  wintry  distance  it  turns  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  great  Sun,  and  clothes  its  dry 
and  withered  branches  anew  with  leaves  and 
blossoms,  unfolded  from  within  itself,  beneath 
the  penetrating  and  irresistible  influence. 

While  delivering  the  discourse,  Kavanagh 
had  not  succeeded  so  entirely  in  abstracting 
himself  from  all  outward  things  as  not  to  note 
in  some  degree  its  effect  upon  his  hearers. 
As  in  modern  times  no  applause  is  permitted 
in  our  churches,  however  moved  the  audience 
may  be,  and,  consequently,  no  one  dares  wave 
his  hat  and  shout,  —  "  Orthodox  Chrysostom  ! 
Thirteenth  Apostle !  Worthy  the  Priesthood  ! " 
-—  as  was  done  in  the  days  of  the  Christian 


A    Tale  69 

Fathers ;  and,  moreover,  as  no  one  after  church 
spoke  to  him  of  his  sermon,  or  of  anything  else, 
—  he  went  home  with  rather  a  heavy  heart, 
and  a  feeling  of  discouragement  One  thing 
had  cheered  and  consoled  him.  It  was  the 
pale  countenance  of  a  young  girl,  whose  dark 
eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  him  during  the  whole 
discourse  with  unflagging  interest  and  atten 
tion.  She  sat  alone  in  a  pew  near  the  pulpit. 
It  was  Alice  Archer.  Ah !  could  he  have 
known  how  deeply  sank  his  words  into  that 
simple  heart,  he  might  have  shuddered  with 
another  kind  of  fear  than  that  of  not  moving 
his  audience  sufficiently  ! 


70  Kavanagh 


XV. 

ON  the  following  morning  Kavanagh  sat 
musing  upon  his  worldly  affairs,  and 
upon  various  little  household  arrangements 
which  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  make. 
To  aid  him  in  these,  he  had  taken  up  the  vil 
lage  paper,  and  was  running  over  the  columns 
of  advertisements, — those  narrow  and  crowded 
thoroughfares,  in  which  the  wants  and  wishes 
of  humanity  display  themselves  like  mendi 
cants  without  disguise.  His  eye  ran  hastily 
over  the  advantageous  offers  of  the  cheap 
tailors  and  the  dealers  in  patent  medicines. 
He  wished  neither  to  be  clothed  nor  cured. 
In  one  place  he  saw  that  a  young  lady,  per 
fectly  competent,  desired  to  form  a  class  of 
young  mothers  and  nurses,  and  to  instruct 
them  in  the  art  of  talking  to  infants  so  as 
to  interest  and  amuse  them ;  and  in  another, 
that  the  firemen  of  Fairmeadow  wished  well 
to  those  hostile  editors  who  had  called  them 
gamblers,  drunkards,  and  rioters,  and  hoped 
that  they  might  be  spared  from  that  great 


A    Tale  71 

fire  which  they  were  told  could  never  be 
extinguished !  Finally,  his  eye  rested  on  the 
advertisement  of  a  carpet  warehouse,  in  which 
the  one-price  system  was  strictly  adhered  to. 
It  was  farther  stated  that  a  discount  would  be 
made  "  to  clergymen  on  small  salaries,  feeble 
churches,  and  charitable  institutions."  Think 
ing  that  this  was  doubtless  the  place  for  one 
who  united  in  himself  two  of  these  qualifica 
tions  for  a  discount,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips, 
he  took  his  hat  and  sallied  forth  into  the 
street 

A  few  days  previous,  Kavanagh  had  dis 
covered  in  the  tower  of  the  church  a  vacant 
room,  which  he  had  immediately  determined 
to  take  possession  of,  and  to  convert  into  a 
study.  From  this  retreat,  through  the  four 
oval  windows,  fronting  the  four  corners  of  the 
heavens,  he  could  look  down  upon  the  streets, 
the  roofs  and  gardens  of  the  village,  —  on  the. 
winding  river,  the  meadows,  the  farms,  the 
distant  blue  mountains.  Here  he  could  sit 
and  meditate,  in  that  peculiar  sense  of  seclu 
sion  and  spiritual  elevation,  that  entire  separa 
tion  from  the  world  below,  which  a  chamber 
in  a  tower  always  gives.  Here,  uninterrupted 
and  aloof  from  all  intrusion,  he  could  pour  his 


72  Kavanagh 

heart  into  those  discourses,  with  which  he 
hoped  to  reach  and  move  the  hearts  of  his 
parishioners. 

It  was  to  furnish  this  retreat,  that  he  went 
forth  on  the  Monday  morning  after  his  first 
sermon.  He  was  not  long  in  procuring  the 
few  things  needed,  —  the  carpet,  the  table,  the 
chairs,  the  shelves  for  books  ;  and  was  return 
ing  thoughtfully  homeward,  when  his  eye  was 
caught  by  a  sign-board  on  the  corner  of  the 
street,  inscribed  "  Moses  Merry  weather,  Dealer 
in  Singing  Birds,  foreign  and  domestic."  He 
saw  also  a  whole  chamber-window  transformed 
into  a  cage,  in  which  sundry  canary-birds,  and 
others  of  a  gayer  plumage,  were  jargoning  to 
gether,  like  people  in  the  market-places  of 
foreign  towns.  At  the  sight  of  these  old  fa 
vorites,  a  long  slumbering  passion  awoke  with 
in  him  ;  and  he  straightway  ascended  the  dark 
wooden  staircase,  with  the  intent  of  enlivening 
his  solitary  room  with  the  vivacity  and  songs 
of  these  captive  ballad-singers. 

In  a  moment  he  found  himself  in  a  little 
room  hung  round  with  cages,  roof  and  walls  ; 
full  of  sunshine ;  full  of  twitterings,  cooings, 
and  flutterings  ;  full  of  downy  odors,  suggest 
ing  nests,  and  dovecots,  and  distant  islands 


A    Tale  73 

inhabited  only  by  birds.  The  taxidermist  — 
the  Selkirk  of  the  sunny  island  —  was  not 
there  ;  but  a  young  lady  of  noble  mien,  who 
was  looking  at  an  English  goldfinch  in  a 
square  cage  with  a  portico,  turned  upon  him, 
as  he  entered,  a  fair  and  beautiful  face,  shaded 
by  long  light  locks,  in  which  the  sunshine 
seemed  entangled,  as  among  the  boughs  of 
trees.  That  face  he  had  never  seen  before, 
and  yet  it  seemed  familiar  to  him  ;  and  the 
added  light  in  her  large,  celestial  eyes,  and  the 
almost  imperceptible  expression  that  passed 
over  her  face,  showed  that  she  knew  who  he 
was. 

At  the  same  moment  the  taxidermist  pre 
sented  himself,  coming  from  an  inner  room  ; — 
a  little  man  in  gray,  with  spectacles  upon  his 
nose,  holding  in  his  hands,  with  wings  and 
legs  drawn  close  and  smoothly  together,  like 
the  green  husks  of  the  maize  ear,  a  beautiful 
carrier-pigeon,  who  turned  up  first  one  bright 
eye  and  then  the  other,  as  if  asking,  "What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  me  now  ? "  This  si 
lent  inquiry  was  soon  answered  by  Mr.  Merry- 
weather,  who  said  to  the  young  lady,  — 

"  Here,  Miss  Vaughan,  is  the  best  carrier- 
pigeon  in  my  whole  collection.  The  real  Co- 

4 


74  Kavanagh 

lumba  Tabullaria.  He  is  about  three  years 
old,  as  you  can  see  by  his  wattle." 

"  A  very  pretty  bird, "  said  the  lady  ;  "  and 
how  shall  I  train  it  ?  " 

"  O,  that  is  very  easy.  You  have  only  to 
keep  it  shut  up  for  a  few  days,  well  fed  and 
well  treated.  Then  take  it  in  an  open  cage  to 
the  place  you  mean  it  to  fly  to,  and  do  the 
same  thing  there.  Afterwards  it  will  give  you 
no  trouble  ;  it  will  always  fly  between  those 
two  places." 

"  That,  certainly,  is  not  very  difficult.  At 
all  events,  I  will  make  the  trial.  You  may 
send  the  bird  home  to  me.  On  what  shall  I 
feed  it  ? " 

"  On  any  kind  of  grain,  —  barley  and  buck 
wheat  are  best ;  and  remember  to  let  it  have 
a  plenty  of  gravel  in  the  bottom  of  its  cage." 

"  I  will  not  forget.  Send  me  the  bird  to 
day,  if  possible." 

With  these  words  she  departed,  much  too 
soon  for  Kavanagh,  who  was  charmed  with 
her  form,  her  face,  her  voice  ;  and  who,  when 
left  alone  with  the  little  taxidermist,  felt  that 
the  momentary  fascination  of  the  place  was 
gone.  He  heard  no  longer  the  singing  of  the 
birds  ;  he  saw  no  longer  their  gay  plumage  ; 


A    Tale  75 

and  having  speedily  made  the  purchase  of  a 
canary  and  a  cage,  he  likewise  departed,  think 
ing  of  the  carrier-pigeons  of  Bagdad,  and  the 
columbaries  of  Egypt,  stationed  at  fixed  inter 
vals  as  relays  and  resting-places  for  the  flying 
post.  With  an  indefinable  feeling  of  sadness, 
too,  came  wafted  like  a  perfume  through  his 
memory  those  tender,  melancholy  lines  of  Ma 
ria  del  Occidente  :  — 

"  And  as  the  dove,  to  far  Palmyra  flying, 

From  where  her  native  founts  of  Antioch  beam, 
Weary,  exhausted,  longing,  panting,  sighing, 
Lights  sadly  at  the  desert's  bitter  stream  ; 

So  many  a  soul,  o'er  life's  drear  desert  faring,  — 
Love's  pure,  congenial  spring  unfound,  unquaffed, — 

Suffers,  recoils,  then,  thirsty  and  despairing 

Of  what  it  would,  descends  and  sips  the  nearest  draught." 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Merryweather,  left  to  him 
self,  walked  about  his  aviary,  musing,  and 
talking  to  his  birds.  Finally  he  paused  before 
the  tin  cage  of  a  gray  African  parrot,  between 
which  and  himself  there  was  a  strong  family 
likeness,  and,  giving  it  his  finger  to  peck  and 
perch  upon,  conversed  with  it  in  that  peculiar 
dialect  with  which  it  had  often  made  vocal  the 
distant  groves  of  Zanguebar.  He  then  with 
drew  to  the  inner  room,  where  he  resumed  his 


76  Kavanagh 

labor  of  stuffing  a  cardinal  grossbeak,  saying 
to  himself  between  whiles,  — 

"I  wonder  what  Miss  Cecilia  Vaughan 
means  to  do  with  a  carrier-pigeon  ! " 

Some  mysterious  connection  he  had  evi 
dently  established  already  between  this  pigeon 
and  Mr.  Kavanagh  ;  for,  continuing  his  rev- 
ery,  he  said,  half  aloud,  — 

"  Of  course  she  would  never  think  of  marry 
ing  a  poor  clergyman  ! " 


A   Tale  77 


XVI. 

THE  old  family  mansion  of  the  Vaughans 
stood  a  little  out  of  town,  in  the  midst  of 
a  pleasant  farm.  The  county  road  was  not 
near  enough  to  annoy ;  and  the  rattling  wheels 
and  little  clouds  of  dust  seemed  like  friendly 
salutations  from  travellers  as  they  passed. 
They  spoke  of  safety  and  companionship, 
and  took  away  all  loneliness  from  the  soli 
tude. 

On  three  sides,  the  farm  was  enclosed  by 
willow  and  alder  hedges,  and  the  flowing  wall 
of  a  river ;  nearer  the  house  were  groves 
clear  of  all  underwood,  with  rocky  knolls,  and 
breezy  bowers  of  beech  ;  and  afar  off  the  blue 
hills  broke  the  horizon,  creating  secret  long 
ings  for  what  lay  beyond  them,  and  filling  the 
mind  with  pleasant  thoughts  of  Prince  Ras- 
selas  and  the  Happy  Valley. 

The  house  was  one  of  the  few  old  houses 
still  standing  in  New  England  ;  —  a  large, 
square  building,  with  a  portico  in  front,  whose 
door  in  Summer  time  stood  open  from  morn 
ing  until  night.  A  pleasing  stillness  reigned 


78  Kavanagk 

about  it  ;  and  soft  gusts  of  pine-embalmed  air, 
and  distant  cawings  from  the  crow-haunted 
mountains,  filled  its  airy  and  ample  halls. 

In  this  old-fashioned  house  had  Cecilia 
Vaughan  grown  up  to  maidenhood.  The  trav 
elling  shadows  of  the  clouds  on  the  hillsides, 
—  the  sudden  Summer  wind,  that  lifted  the 
languid  leaves,  and  rushed  from  field  to  field, 
from  grove  to  grove,  the  forerunner  of  the 
rain,  —  and,  most  of  all,  the  mysterious  moun 
tain,  whose  coolness  was  a  perpetual  invitation 
to  her,  and  whose  silence  a  perpetual  fear,  — 
fostered  her  dreamy  and  poetic  temperament. 
Not  less  so  did  the  reading  of  poetry  and  ro 
mance  in  the  long,  silent,  solitary  winter  even 
ings.  Her  mother  had  been  dead  for  many 
years,  and  the  memory  of  that  mother  had 
become  almost  a  religion  to  her.  She  recalled 
it  incessantly  ;  and  the  reverential  love  which 
it  inspired  completely  filled  her  soul  with  mel 
ancholy  delight.  Her  father  was  a  kindly  old 
man  ;  a  judge  in  one  of  the  courts  ;  dignified, 
affable,  somewhat  bent  by  his  legal  erudition, 
as  a  shelf  is  by  the  weight  of  the  books  upon 
it.  His  papers  encumbered  the  study  table  ; 
• — his  law  books,  the  study  floor.  They  seemed 
to  shut  out  from  his  mind  the  lovely  daughter, 
who  had  grown  up  to  womanhood  by  his  side, 


A    Tale  79 

but  almost  without  his  recognition.  Always 
affectionate,  always  indulgent,  he  left  her  to 
walk  alone,  without  his  stronger  thought  and 
firmer  purpose  to  lean  upon  ;  and  though  her 
education  had  been,  on  this  account,  somewhat 
desultory,  and  her  imagination  indulged  in 
many  dreams  and  vagaries,  yet,  on  the  whole, 
the  result  had  been  more  favorable  than  in 
many  cases  where  the  process  of  instruction 
has  been  too  diligently  carried  on,  and  where, 
as  sometimes  on  the  roofs  of  farm-houses  and 
barns,  the  scaffolding  has  been  left  to  deform 
the  building. 

Cecilia's  bosom-friend  at  school  was  Alice 
Archer ;  and,  after  they  left  school,  the  love 
between  them,  and  consequently  the  letters, 
rather  increased  than  diminished.  These  two 
young  hearts  found  not  only  a  delight,  but  a 
necessity,  in  pouring  forth  their  thoughts  and 
feelings  to  each  other  ;  and  it  was  to  facilitate 
this  intercommunication,  for  whose  exigencies 
the  ordinary  methods  were  now  found  inade 
quate,  that  the  carrier-pigeon  had  been  pur 
chased.  He  was  to  be  the  flying  post ;  their 
bedrooms  the  dove-cots,  the  pure  and  friendly 
columbaria. 

Endowed  with  youth,  beauty,  talent,  fortune, 
and,  moreover,  with  that  indefinable  fascina- 


8o  Kavanagh 

tion  which  has  no  name,  Cecilia  Vaughan  was 
not  without  lovers,  avowed  and  unavowed  ;  — 
young  men,  who  made  an  ostentatious  display 
of  their  affection  ;  —  boys,  who  treasured  it  in 
their  bosoms,  as  something  indescribably  sweet 
and  precious,  perfuming  all  the  chambers  of 
the  heart  with  its  celestial  fragrance.  When 
ever  she  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  city,  some 
unknown  youth  of  elegant  manners  and  var 
nished  leather  boots  was  sure  to  hover  round 
the  village  inn  for  a  few  days, — was  known  to 
visit  the  Vaughans  assiduously,  and  then  si 
lently  to  disappear,  and  be  seen  no  more.  Of 
course,  nothing  could  be  known  of  the  secret 
history  of  such  individuals ;  but  shrewd  sur 
mises  were  formed  as  to  their  designs  and 
their  destinies ;  till  finally,  any  well-dressed 
stranger,  lingering  in  the  village  without  os 
tensible  business,  was  set  down  as  "one  of  Miss 
Vaughan's  lovers." 

In  all  this,  what  a  contrast  was  there  be 
tween  the  two  young  friends  !  The  wealth  of 
one  and  the  poverty  of  the  other  were  not  so 
strikingly  at  variance,  as  this  affluence  and 
refluence  of  love.  To  the  one,  so  much  was 
given  that  she  became  regardless  of  the  gift ; 
from  the  other,  so  much  withheld,  that,  if  pos 
sible,  she  exaggerated  its  importance. 


A   Tale  81 


XVII. 

IN  addition  to  these  transient  lovers,  who 
were  but  birds  of  passage,  winging  their 
way,  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  from 
the  torrid  to  the  frigid  zone,  there  was  in  the 
village  a  domestic  and  resident  adorer,  whose 
love  for  himself,  for  Miss  Vaughan,  and  for  the 
beautiful,  had  transformed  his  name  from  Hi 
ram  A.  Hawkins  to  H.  Adolphus  Hawkins. 
He  was  a  dealer  in  English  linens  and  car 
pets  ;  —  a  profession  which  of  itself  fills  the 
mind  with  ideas  of  domestic  comfort.  His 
waistcoats  were  made  like  Lord  Melbourne's 
in  the  illustrated  English  papers,  and  his  shiny 
hair  went  off  to  the  left  in  a  superb  sweep,  like 
the  hand-rail  of  a  banister.  He  wore  many 
rings  on  his  fingers,  and  several  breastpins  and 
gold  chains  disposed  about  his  person.  On  all 
his  bland  physiognomy  was  stamped,  as  on 
some  of  his  linens,  "  Soft  finish  for  family  use." 
Everything  about  him  spoke  the  lady's  man. 
He  was,  in  fact,  a  perfect  ring-dove  ;  and,  like 
the  rest  of  his  species,  always  walked  up  to  the 
4*  F 


82  Kavanagh 

female,  and,  bowing  his  head,  swelled  out  his 
white  crop,  and  uttered  a  very  plaintive  mur 
mur. 

Moreover,  Mr.  H.  Adolphus  Hawkins  was  a 
poet,  —  so  much  a  poet,  that,  as  his  sister  fre 
quently  remarked,  he  "  spoke  blank  verse  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family."  The  general  tone 
of  his  productions  was  sad,  desponding,  per 
haps  slightly  morbid.  How  could  it  be  other 
wise  with  the  writings  of  one  who  had  never 
been  the  world's  friend,  nor  the  world  his  ? 
who  looked  upon  himself  as  "a  pyramid  of 
mind  on  the  dark  desert  of  despair"?  and 
who,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  had  drunk  the 
bitter  draught  of  life  to  the  dregs,  and  dashed 
the  goblet  down  ?  His  productions  were  pub 
lished  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  the  Fairmeadow 
Advertiser ;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  know,  that, 
in  private  life,  as  his  sister  remarked,  he  was 
"  by  no  means  the  censorious  and  moody  per 
son  some  of  his  writings  might  imply." 

Such  was  the  personage  who  assumed  to 
himself  the  perilous  position  of  Miss  Vaughan's 
permanent  lover.  He  imagined  that  it  was 
impossible  for  any  woman  to  look  upon  him 
and  not  love  him.  Accordingly,  he  paraded 
himself  at  his  shop-door  as  she  passed  ;  he  pa- 


A    Tale  83 

raded  himself  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  ;  he 
paraded  himself  at  the  church-steps  on  Sun 
day.  He  spied  her  from  the  window ;  he  sal 
lied  from  the  door ;  he  followed  her  with  his 
eyes ;  he  followed  her  with  his  whole  august 
person  ;  he  passed  her  and  repassed  her,  and 
turned  back  to  gaze  ;  he  lay  in  wait  with  de 
jected  countenance  and  desponding  air ;  he 
persecuted  her  with  his  looks  ;  he  pretended 
that  their  souls  could  comprehend  each  other 
without  words  ;  and  whenever  her  lovers  were 
alluded  to  in  his  presence,  he  gravely  declared, 
as  one  who  had  reason  to  know,  that,  if  Miss 
Vaughan  ever  married,  it  would  be  some  one  of 
gigantic  intellect ! 

Of  these  persecutions  Cecilia  was  for  a  long 
time  the  unconscious  victim.  She  saw  this 
individual,  with  rings  and  strange  waistcoats, 
performing  his  gyrations  before  her,  but  did 
not  suspect  that  she  was  the  centre  of  attrac 
tion,  —  not  imagining  that  any  man  would  be 
gin  his  wooing  with  such  outrages.  Gradually 
the  truth  dawned  upon  her,  and  became  the 
source  of  indescribable  annoyance,  which  was 
augmented  by  a  series  of  anonymous  letters, 
written  in  a  female  hand,  and  setting  forth  the 
excellences  of  a  certain  mysterious  relative,  — - 


84  Kavanagh 

his  modesty,  his  reserve,  his  extreme  delicacy, 
his  talent  for  poetry,  —  rendered  authentic  by 
extracts  from  his  papers,  made,  of  course,  with 
out  the  slightest  knowledge  or  suspicion  on 
his  part.  Whence  came  these  sibylline  leaves  ? 
At  first  Cecilia  could  not  divine ;  but,  erelong, 
her  woman's  instinct  traced  them  to  the  thin 
and  nervous  hand  of  the  poet's  sister.  This 
surmise  was  confirmed  by  her  maid,  who  asked 
the  boy  that  brought  them. 

It  was  with  one  of  these  missives  in  her 
hand  that  Cecilia  entered  Mrs.  Archer's  house, 
after  purchasing  the  carrier-pigeon.  Unan 
nounced  she  entered,  and  walked  up  the  nar 
row  and  imperfectly  lighted  stairs  to  Alice's 
bedroom,  —  that  little  sanctuary  draped  with 
white,  —  that  columbarium  lined  with  warmth, 
and  softness,  and  silence.  Alice  was  not  there ; 
but  the  chair  by  the  window,  the  open  volume 
of  Tennyson's  poems  on  the  table,  the  note  to 
Cecilia  by  its  side,  and  the  ink  not  yet  dry  in 
the  pen,  were  like  the  vibration  of  a  bough, 
when  the  bird  has  just  left  it, — -like  the  rising 
of  the  grass,  when  the  foot  has  just  pressed  it. 
In  a  moment  she  returned.  She  had  been 
down  to  her  mother,  who  sat  talking,  talking, 
talking,  with  an  old  friend  in  the  parlor  below, 


A    Tale  85 

even  as  these  young  friends  were  talking  to 
gether,  in  the  bedroom  above.  Ah,  how  dif 
ferent  were  their  themes !  Death  and  Love, 
—  apples  of  Sodom,  that  crumble  to  ashes  at 
a  touch,  —  golden  fruits  of  the  Hesperides,  — 
golden  fruits  of  Paradise,  fragrant,  ambrosia], 
perennial ! 

"I  have  just  been  writing  to  you,"  said 
Alice  ;  "  I  wanted  so  much  to  see  you  this 
morning !" 

"Why  this  morning  in  particular?  Has 
anything  happened  ? " 

"  Nothing,  only  I  had  such  a  longing  to  see 
you!" 

And,  seating  herself  in  a  low  chair  by  Ce 
cilia's  side,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the  shoul 
der  of  her  friend,  who,  taking  one  of  her  pale, 
thin  hands  in  both  her  own,  silently  kissed  her 
forehead  again  and  again. 

Alice  was  not  aware,  that,  in  the  words  she 
uttered,  there  was  the  slightest  shadow  of  un 
truth.  And  yet  had  nothing  happened  ?  Was 
it  nothing,  that  among  her  thoughts  a  new 
thought  had  risen,  like  a  star,  whose  pale 
effulgence,  mingled  with  the  common  daylight, 
was  not  yet  distinctly  visible  even  to  herself, 
but  would  grow  brighter  as  the  sun  grew  lower, 


86  Kavanagk 

and  the  rosy  twilight  darker  ?  Was  it  noth 
ing,  that  a  new  fountain  of  affection  had  sud 
denly  sprung  up  within  her,  which  she  mistook 
for  the  freshening  and  overflowing  of  the  old 
fountain  of  friendship,  that  hitherto  had  kept 
the  lowland  landscape  of  her  life  so  green,  but 
now,  being  flooded  by  more  affection,  was  not 
to  cease,  but  only  to  disappear  in  the  greater 
tide,  and  flow  unseen  beneath  it  ?  Yet  so  it 
was  ;  and  this  stronger  yearning  —  this  unap 
peasable  desire  for  her  friend  —  was  only  the 
tumultuous  swelling  of  a  heart,  that  as  yet 
knows  not  its  own  secret. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Cecilia  ! "  she  con 
tinued.  "  You  are  so  beautiful !  I  love  so 
much  to  sit  and  look  at  you  !  Ah,  how  I  wish 
Heaven  had  made  me  as  tall,  and  strong,  and 
beautiful  as  you  are  ! " 

"  You  little  flatterer  !  What  an  affectionate, 
lover-like  friend  you  are  !  What  have  you 
been  doing  all  the  morning  ?  " 

"  Looking  out  of  the  window,  thinking  of 
you,  and  writing  you  this  letter,  to  beg  you 
to  come  and  see  me." 

"  And  I  have  been  buying  a  carrier-pigeon, 
to  fly  between  us,  and  carry  all  our  letters." 

"  That  will  be  delightful." 


A    Tale  87 

"  He  is  to  be  sent  home  to-day  ;  and  after 
he  gets  accustomed  to  my  room,  I  shall  send 
him  here,  to  get  acquainted  with  yours  ;  —  an 
lachimo  in  my  Imogen's  bedchamber,  to  spy 
out  its  secrets." 

"  If  he  sees  Cleopatra  in  these  white  cur 
tains,  and  silver  Cupids  in  these  andirons,  he 
will  have  your  imagination." 

"  He  will  see  the  book  with  the  leaf  turned 
down,  and  you  asleep,  and  tell  me  all  about 
you." 

"  A  carrier-pigeon  !  What  a  charming  idea ! 
and  how  like  you  to  think  of  it  !  " 

"  But  to-day  I  have  been  obliged  to  bring 
my  own  letters.  I  have  some  more  sibylline 
leaves  from  my  anonymous  correspondent,  in 
laud  and  exaltation  of  her  modest  relative,  who 
speaks  blank  verse  in  the  bosom  of  his  family. 
I  have  brought  them  to  read  you  some  ex 
tracts,  and  to  take  your  advice  ;  for,  really  and 
seriously,  this  must  be  stopped.  It  has  grown 
too  annoying." 

"  How  much  love  you  have  offered  you  ! " 
said  Alice,  sighing. 

"  Yes,  quite  too  much  of  this  kind.  On  my 
way  here,  I  saw  the  modest  relative,  standing 
at  the  corner  of  the  street,  hanging  his  head  in 
this  way." 


88  Kavanagh 

And  she  imitated  the  melancholy  Hiram 
Adolphus,  and  the  young  friends  laughed. 

"  I  hope  you  did  not  notice  him  ? "  resumed 
Alice. 

"  Certainly  not.  But  what  do  you  suppose 
he  did  ?  As  soon  as  he  saw  me,  he  began  to 
walk  backward  down  the  street  only  a  short 
distance  in  front  of  me,  staring  at  me  most 
impertinently.  Of  course,  I  took  no  notice 
of  this  strange  conduct.  I  felt  myself  blush 
ing  to  the  eyes  with  indignation,  and  yet 
could  hardly  suppress  my  desire  to  laugh." 

"  If  you  had  laughed,  he  would  have  taken 
it  for  an  encouragement ;  and  I  have  no  doubt 
it  would  have  brought  on  the  catastrophe." 

"  And  that  would  have  ended  the  matter.  I 
half  wish  I  had  laughed." 

"  But  think  of  the  immortal  glory  of  marry 
ing  a  poet ! " 

"  And  of  inscribing  on  my  cards,  Mrs.  H. 
Adolphus  Hawkins  !  " 

"  A  few  days  ago,  I  went  to  buy  something 
at  his  shop  ;  and,  leaning  over  the  counter, 
he  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  sun  set  the 
evening  before,  —  adding,  that  it  was  gorgeous, 
and  that  the  grass  and  trees  were  of  a  beauti 
ful  Paris  green  ! " 


A   Tale  89 

And  again  the  young  friends  gave  way  to 
their  mirth. 

"  One  thing,  dear  Alice,  you  must  consent 
to  do  for  me.  You  must  write  to  Miss  Mar 
tha  Amelia,  the  author  of  all  these  epistles,  and 
tell  her  very  plainly  how  indelicate  her  con 
duct  is,  and  how  utterly  useless  all  such  pro 
ceedings  will  prove  in  effecting  her  purpose." 

"  I  will  write  this  very  day.  You  shall  be  no 
longer  persecuted." 

"  And  now  let  me  give  you  a  few  extracts 
from  these  wonderful  epistles." 

So  saying,  Cecilia  drew  forth  a  small  pack 
age  of  three-cornered  billets,  tied  with  a  bit  of 
pink  ribbon.  Taking  one  of  them  at  random, 
she  was  on  the  point  of  beginning,  but  paused, 
as  if  her  attention  had  been  attracted  by  some 
thing  out  of  doors.  The  sound  of  passing  foot 
steps  was  heard  on  the  gravel  walk. 

"  There  goes  Mr.  Kavanagh,"  said  she,  in  a 
half-whisper. 

Alice  rose  suddenly  from  her  low  chair  at 
Cecilia's  side,  and  the  young  friends  looked 
from  the  window  to  see  the  clergyman  pass. 

"  How  handsome  he  is  !  "  said  Alice,  invol 
untarily. 

"  He  is,  indeed." 


QO  Kavanagk 

At  that  moment  Alice  started  back  from 
the  window.  Kavanagh  had  looked  up  in 
passing,  as  if  his  eye  had  been  drawn  by  some 
secret  magnetism.  A  bright  color  flushed  the 
cheek  of  Alice  ;  her  eyes  fell ;  but  Cecilia  con 
tinued  to  look  steadily  into  the  street.  Kav- 
anagh  passed  on,  and  in  a  few  moments  was 
out  of  sight. 

The  two  friends  stood  silent,  side  by  side. 


A   Tale  91 


XVIII. 

A  RTHUR  KAVANAGH  was  descended 
f\  from  an  ancient  Catholic  family.  His 
ancestors  had  purchased  from  the  Baron  Vic 
tor  of  St.  Castine  a  portion  of  his  vast  estates, 
lying  upon  that  wild  and  wonderful  sea-coast 
of  Maine,  which,  even  upon  the  map,  attracts 
the  eye  by  its  singular  and  picturesque  inden 
tations,  and  fills  the  heart  of  the  beholder  with 
something  of  that  delight  which  throbbed  in 
the  veins  of  Pierre  du  Cast,  when,  with  a  royal 
charter  of  the  land  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific,  he  sailed  down  the  coast  in  all  the 
pride  of  one  who  is  to  be  prince  of  such  a  vast 
domain.  Here,  in  the  bosom  of  the  solemn 
forests,  they  continued  the  practice  of  that 
faith  which  had  first  been  planted  there  by 
Rasle  and  St.  Castine  ;  and  the  little  church 
where  they  worshipped  is  still  standing,  though 
now  as  closed  and  silent  as  the  graves  which 
surround  it,  and  in  which  the  dust  of  the  Kav- 
anaghs  lies  buried. 

In  these  solitudes,  in  this  faith,  was  Kava- 


92  Kavanagh 

nagh  born,  and  grew  to  childhood,  a  feeble,  deli 
cate  boy,  watched  over  by  a  grave  and  taciturn 
father,  and  a  mother  who  looked  upon  him 
with  infinite  tenderness,  as  upon  a  treasure  she 
should  not  long  retain.  She  walked  with  him 
by  the  seaside,  and  spake  to  him  of  God,  and 
the*  mysterious  majesty  of  the  ocean,  with  its 
tides  and  tempests.  She  sat  with  him  on  the 
carpet  of  golden  threads  beneath  the  aromatic 
pines,  and,  as  the  perpetual  melancholy  sound 
ran  along  the  rattling  boughs,  his  soul  seemed 
to  rise  and  fall,  with  a  motion  and  a  whisper 
like  those  in  the  branches  over  him.  She 
taught  him  his  letters  from  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  —  a  volume  full  of  wondrous  legends, 
and  illustrated  with  engravings 'from  pictures 
by  the  old  masters,  which  opened  to  him  at 
once  the  world  of  spirits  and  the  world  of  art ; 
and  both  were  beautiful.  She  explained  to 
him  the  pictures  ;  she  read  to  him  the  legends, 
—  the  lives  of  holy  men  and  women,  full  of 
faith  and  good  works,  —  things  which  ever 
afterward  remained  associated  together  in  his 
mind.  Thus  holiness  of  life,  and  self-renuncia 
tion,  and  devotion  to  duty,  were  early  im 
pressed  upon  his  soul.  To  his  quick  imagina 
tion,  the  spiritual  world  became  real ;  the 


A    Tale  93 

holy  company  of  the  saints  stood  round  about 
the  solitary  boy ;  his  guardian  angels  led  him 
by  the  hand  by  day,  and  sat  by  his  pillow  at 
night.  At  times,  even,  he  wished  to  die,  that 
he  might  see  them  and  talk  with  them,  and 
return  no  more  to  his  weak  and  weary  body. 

Of  all  the  legends  of  the  mysterious  book, 
that  which  most  delighted  and  most  deeply 
impressed  him  was  the  legend  of  St.  Christo 
pher.  The  picture  was  from  a  painting  of 
Paolo  Farinato,  representing  a  figure  of  gi 
gantic  strength  and  stature,  leaning  upon  a 
staff,  and  bearing  the  infant  Christ  on  his 
bending  shoulders  across  the  rushing  river. 
The  legend  related,  that  St.  Christopher,  be 
ing  of  huge  proportions  and  immense  strength, 
wandered  long  about  the  world  before  his  con 
version,  seeking  for  the  greatest  king,  and  wil 
ling  to  obey  no  other.  After  serving  various 
masters,  whom  he  in  turn  deserted,  because 
each  recognized  by  some  word  or  sign  another 
greater  than  himself,  he  heard  by  chance  of 
Christ,  the  king  of  heaven  and  earth,  and 
asked  of  a  holy  hermit  where  he  might  be 
found,  and  how  he  might  serve  him.  The 
hermit  told  him  he  must  fast  and  pray ;  but 
the  giant  replied  that  if  he  fasted  he  should 


94  Kavanagh 

lose  his  strength,  and  that  he  did  not  know 
how  to  pray.  Then  the  hermit  told  him  to 
take  up  his  abode  on  the  banks  of  a  danger 
ous  mountain  torrent,  where  travellers  were 
often  drowned  in  crossing,  and  to  rescue  any 
that  might  be  in  peril.  The  giant  obeyed  ; 
and  tearing  up  a  palm-tree  by  the  roots  for  a 
staff,  he  took  his  station  by  the  river's  side, 
and  saved  many  lives.  And  the  Lord  looked 
down  from  heaven  and  said,  "  Behold  this 
strong  man,  who  knows  not  yet  the  way  to 
worship,  but  has  found  the  way  to  serve  me  !  " 
And  one  night  he  heard  the  voice  of  a  child, 
crying  in  the  darkness  and  saying,  "  Christo 
pher  !  come  and  bear  me  over  the  river ! " 
And  he  went  out,  and  found  the  child  sitting 
alone  on  the  margin  of  the  stream ;  and  taking 
him  upon  his  shoulders,  he  waded  into  the  wa 
ter.  Then  the  wind  began  to  roar,  and  the 
waves  to  rise  higher  and  higher  about  him, 
and  his  little  burden,  which  at  first  had 
seemed  so  light,  grew  heavier  and  heavier 
as  he  advanced,  and  bent  his  huge  shoulders 
down,  and  put  his  life  in  peril  ;  so  that,  when 
he  reached  the  shore,  he  said,  "Who  art  thou, 
O  child,  that  hast  weighed  upon  me  with  a 
Veight,  as  if  I  had  borne  the  whole  world 


A   Tale  95 

upon  my  shoulders  ? "  And  the  little  child 
answered,  "  Thou  hast  borne  the  whole  world 
upon  thy  shoulders,  and  Him  who  created  it. 
I  am  Christ,  whom  thou  by  thy  deeds  of  char 
ity  wouldst  serve.  Thou  and  thy  service  are 
accepted.  Plant  thy  staff  in  the  ground,  and 
it  shall  blossom  and  bear  fruit !  "  With  these 
words,  the  child  vanished  away. 

There  was  something  in  this  beautiful  le 
gend  that  entirely  captivated  the  heart  of  the 
boy,  and  a  vague  sense  of  its  hidden  meaning 
seemed  at  times  to  seize  him  and  control  him. 
Later  in  life  it  became  more  and  more  evident 
to  him,  and  remained  forever  in  his  mind  as  a 
lovely  allegory  of  active  charity  and  a  willing 
ness  to  serve.  Like  the  giant's  staff,  it  blos 
somed  and  bore  fruit. 

But  the  time  at  length  came,  when  his 
father  decreed  that  he  must  be  sent  away  to 
school.  It  was  not  meet  that  his  son  should 
be  educated  as  a  girl.  He  must  go  to  the 
Jesuit  college  in  Canada.  Accordingly,  one 
bright  summer  morning,  he  departed  with  his 
father,  on  horseback,  through  those  majestic 
forests  that  stretch  with  almost  unbroken  shad 
ows  from  the  sea  to  the  St.  Lawrence,  leaving 
behind  him  all  the  endearments  of  home,  and  a 


96  KavanagH 

wound  in  his  mother's  heart  that  never  ceased 
to  ache,  —  a  longing,  unsatisfied  and  insati 
able,  for  her  absent  Arthur,  who  had  gone 
from  her  perhaps  forever. 

At  college  he  distinguished  himself  by  his 
zeal  for  study,  by  the  docility,  gentleness,  and 
generosity  of  his  nature.  There  he  was  thor 
oughly  trained  in  the  classics,  and  in  the  dog 
mas  of  that  august  faith,  whose  turrets  gleam 
with  such  crystalline  light,  and  whose  dun 
geons  are  so  deep,  and  dark,  and  terrible. 
The  study  of  philosophy  and  theology  was 
congenial  to  his  mind.  Indeed,  he  often  laid 
aside  Homer  for  Parmenides,  and  turned  from 
the  odes  of  Pindar  and  Horace  to  the  mystic 
hymns  of  Cleanthes  and  Synesius. 

The  uniformity  of  college  life  was  broken 
only  by  the  annual  visit  home  in  the  summer 
vacation  ;  the  joyous  meeting,  the  bitter  part 
ing  ;  the  long  journey  to  and  fro  through  the 
grand,  solitary,  mysterious  forest.  To  his  moth 
er  these  visits  were  even  more  precious  than  to 
himself ;  for  ever  more  and  more  they  added  to 
her  boundless  affection  the  feeling  of  pride  and 
confidence  and  satisfaction, — the  joy  and  beau 
ty  of  a  youth  unspotted  from  the  world,  and 
glowing  with  the  enthusiasm  of  virtue. 


A    Tale  97 

At  length  his  college  days  were  ended.  He 
returned  home  full  of  youth,  full  of  joy  and 
hope  ;  but  it  was  only  to  receive  the  dying 
blessings  of  his  mother,  who  expired  in  peace, 
having  seen  his  face  once  more.  Then  the 
house  became  empty  to  him.  Solitary  was 
the  sea-shore,  solitary  were  the  woodland 
walks.  But  the  spiritual  world  seemed  near 
er  and  more  real.  For  affairs  he  had  no  apti 
tude  ;  and  he  betook  himself  again  to  his 
philosophic  and  theological  studies.  He  pon 
dered  with  fond  enthusiasm  on  the  rapturous 
pages  of  Molinos  and  Madame  Guyon  ;  and  in 
a  spirit  akin  to  that  which  wrote,  he  read  the 
writings  of  Santa  Theresa,  which  he  found 
among  his  mother's  books,  —  the  Meditations, 
the  Road  to  Perfection,  and  the  Moradas,  or 
Castle  of  the  Soul.  She,  too,  had  lingered 
over  those  pages  with  delight,  and  there  were 
many  passages  marked  by  her  own  hand. 
Among  them  was  this,  which  he  often  re 
peated  to  himself  in  his  lonely  walks  :  "  O, 
Life,  Life !  how  canst  thou  sustain  thyself, 
being  absent  from  thy  Life  ?  In  so  great  a 
solitude,  in  what  shalt  thou  employ  thyself? 
What  shalt  thou  do,  since  all  thy  deeds  are 
faulty  and  imperfect  ? " 


98  Kavanagh 

In  such  meditations  passed  many  weeks  and 
months.  But  mingled  with  them,  continually 
and  ever  with  more  distinctness,  arose  in  his 
memory  from  the  days  of  childhood  the  old 
tradition  of  Saint  Christopher,  —  the  beauti 
ful  allegory  of  humility  and  labor.  He  and  his 
service  had  been  accepted,  though  he  would 
not  fast,  and  had  not  learned  to  pray  !  It  be 
came  more  and  more  clear  to  him,  that  the  life 
of  man  consists  not  in  seeing  visions,  and  in 
dreaming  dreams,  but  in  active  charity  and 
willing  service. 

Moreover,  the  study  of  ecclesiastical  history 
awoke  within  him  many  strange  and  dubious 
thoughts.  The  books  taught  him  more  than 
their  writers  meant  to  teach.  It  was  impossi 
ble  to  read  of  Athanasius  without  reading  also 
of  Arius  ;  it  was  impossible  to  hear  of  Calvin 
without  hearing  of  Servetus.  Reason  began 
more  energetically  to  vindicate  itself;  that 
Reason,  which  is  a  light  in  darkness,  not  that 
which  is  "  a  thorn  in  Revelation's  side."  The 
search  after  Truth  and  Freedom,  both  intel 
lectual  and  spiritual,  became  a  passion  in  his 
soul ;  and  he  pursued  it  until  he  had  left  far 
behind  him  many  dusky  dogmas,  many  antique 
superstitions,  many  time-honored  observances, 


A   Tale  99 

which  the  lips  of  her  alone,  who  first  taught 
them  to  him  in  his  childhood,  had  invested 
with  solemnity  and  sanctity. 

By  slow  degrees,  and  not  by  violent  spiritual 
conflicts,  he  became  a  Protestant.  He  had  but 
passed  from  one  chapel  to  another  in  the  same 
vast  cathedral.  He  was  still  beneath  the  same 
ample  roof,  still  heard  the  same  divine  service 
chanted  in  a  different  dialect  of  the  same  univer 
sal  language.  Out  of  his  old  faith  he  brought 
with  him  all  he  had  found  in  it  that  was  holy 
and  pure  and  of  good  report.  Not  its  bigotry, 
and  fanaticism,  and  intolerance  ;  but  its  zeal, 
its  self-devotion,  its  heavenly  aspirations,  its 
human  sympathies,  its  endless  deeds  of  charity. 
Not  till  after  his  father's  death,  however,  did 
he  become  a  clergyman.  Then  his  vocation 
was  manifest  to  him.  He  no  longer  hesitated, 
but  entered  upon  its  many  duties  and  respon 
sibilities,  its  many  trials  and  discouragements, 
with  the  zeal  of  Peter  and  the  gentleness  of 
John. 


ioo  Kavanagh 


XIX. 

A  WEEK  later,  and  Kavanagh  was  in 
stalled  in  his  little  room  in  the  church- 
tower.  A  week 'later,  and  the  carrier-pigeon 
was  on  the  wing.  A  week  later,  and  Martha 
Amelia's  anonymous  epistolary  eulogies  of  her 
relative  had  ceased  forever. 

Swiftly  and  silently  the  summer  advanced, 
and  the  following  announcement  in  the  Fair- 
meadow  Advertiser  proclaimed  the  hot  weath 
er  and  its  alleviations  :  — 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing  to  the 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  Fairmeadow  and  its 
vicinity,  that  my  Bath  House  is  now  com 
pleted,  and  ready  for  the  reception  of  those 
who  are  disposed  to  regale  themselves  in  a 
luxury  peculiar  to  the  once  polished  Greek 
and  noble  Roman. 

"  To  the  Ladies  I  will  say,  that  Tuesday  of 
each  week  will  be  appropriated  to  their  exclu 
sive  benefit ;  the  white  flag  will  be  the  signal ; 
and  I  assure  the  Ladies,  that  due  respect  shall 


A   Tale  101 

be  scrupulously  observed,  and  that  they  shall 
be  guarded  from  each  vagrant  foot  and  each 
licentious  eye. 

"EDWARD  DIMPLE." 

Moreover,  the  village  was  enlivened  by  the 
usual  travelling  shows,  —  the  wax-work  figures 
representing  Eliza  Wharton  and  the  Salem 
Tragedy,  to  which  clergymen  and  their  fami 
lies  were  "  respectfully  invited,  free  on  present 
ing  their  cards";  a  stuffed  shark,  that  had 
eaten  the  exhibitor's  father  in  Lynn  Bay  ;  the 
menagerie,  with  its  loud  music  and  its  roars  of 
rage  ;  the  circus,  with  its  tan  and  tinsel,  —  its 
faded  Columbine  and  melancholy  Clown ;  and, 
finally,  the  standard  drama,  in  which  Elder 
Evans,  like  an  ancient  Spanish  Bululu,  imper 
sonated  all  the  principal  male  characters,  and 
was  particularly  imposing  in  lago  and  the 
Moor,  having  half  his  face  lamp-blacked,  and 
turning  now  the  luminous,  now  the  eclipsed 
side  to  the  audience,  as  the  exigencies  of  the 
dialogue  demanded. 

There  was  also  a  great  Temperance  Jubilee, 
with  a  procession,  in  which  was  conspicuous  a 
large  horse,  whose  shaven  tail  was  adorned 
with  gay  ribbons,  and  whose  rider  bore  a  ban- 


IO2  Kavanagh 

ner  with  the  device,  "  Shaved  in  the  Cause  !  " 
Moreover,  the  Grand  Junction  Railroad  was 
opened  through  the  town,  running  in  one  di 
rection  to  the  city,  and  in  the  other  into  un 
known  northern  regions,  stringing  the  white 
villages  like  pearls  upon  its  black  thread.  By 
this,  the  town  lost  much  of  its  rural  quiet  and 
seclusion.  The  inhabitants  became  restless 
and  ambitious.  They  were  in  constant  ex 
citement  and  alarm,  like  children  in  story 
books  hidden  away  somewhere  by  an  ogre, 
who  visits  them  regularly  every  day  and  night, 
and  occasionally  devours  one  of  them  for  a 
meal. 

Nevertheless,  most  of  the  inhabitants  con 
sidered  the  railroad  a  great  advantage  to  the 
village.  Several  ladies  were  heard  to  say  that 
Fairmeadow  had  grown  quite  metropolitan  ; 
and  Mrs.  Wilmerdings,  who  suffered  under  a 
chronic  suspension  of  the  mental  faculties,  had 
a  vague  notion,  probably  connected  with  the 
profession  of  her  son,  that  it  was  soon  to  be 
come  a  seaport. 

In  the  fields  and  woods,  meanwhile,  there 
were  other  signs  and  signals  of  the  summer. 
The  darkening  foliage ;  the  embrowning  grain ; 
the  golden  dragon-fly  haunting  the  blackberry- 


A    Tale  103 

bushes ;  the  cawing  crows,  that  looked  down 
from  the  mountain  on  the  cornfield,  and  wait 
ed  day  after  day  for  the  scarecrow  to  finish  his 
work  and  depart ;  and  the  smoke  of  far-off 
burning  woods,  that  pervaded  the  air  and 
hung  in  purple  haze  about  the  summits  of 
the  mountains,  —  these  were  the  vaunt-cou 
riers  and  attendants  of  the  hot  August. 

Kavanagh  had  now  completed  the  first 
great  cycle  of  parochial  visits.  He  had  seen 
the  Vaughans,  the  Archers,  the  Churchills,  and 
also  the  Hawkinses  and  the  Wilmerdingses, 
and  many  more.  With  Mr.  Churchill  he  had 
become  intimate.  They  had  many  points  of 
contact  and  sympathy.  They  walked  togeth 
er  on  leisure  afternoons  ;  they  sat  together 
through  long  summer  evenings  ;  they  dis 
coursed  with  friendly  zeal  on  various  topics 
of  literature,  religion,  and  morals. 

Moreover,  he  worked  assiduously  at  his  ser 
mons.  He  preached  the  doctrines  of  Christ. 
He  preached  holiness,  self-denial,  love ;  and 
his  hearers  remarked  that  he  almost  invaria 
bly  took  his  texts  from  the  Evangelists,  as 
much  as  possible  from  the  words  of  Christ, 
and  seldom  from  Paul,  or  the  Old  Testa 
ment.  He  did  not  so  much  denounce  vice, 


IO4  Kavanagh 

as  inculcate  virtue  ;  he  did  not  deny,  but  af 
firm  ;  he  did  not  lacerate  the  hearts  of  his 
hearers  with  doubt  and  disbelief,  but  con 
soled,  and  comforted,  and  healed  them  with 
faith. 

The  only  danger  was  that  he  might  advance 
too  far,  and  leave  his  congregation  behind 
him ;  as  a  piping  shepherd,  who,  charmed 
with  his  own  music,  walks  over  the  flowery 
mead,  not  perceiving  that  his  tardy  flock  is 
lingering  far  behind,  more  intent  upon  crop 
ping  the  thymy  food  around  them,  than  upon 
listening  to  the  celestial  harmonies  that  are 
gradually  dying  away  in  the  distance. 

His  words  were  always  kindly ;  he  brought 
no  railing  accusation  against  any  man ;  he 
dealt  in  no  exaggerations  nor  over-statements. 
But  while  he  was  gentle,  he  was  firm.  He 
did  not  refrain  from  reprobating  intemper 
ance  because  one  of  his  deacons  owned  a 
distillery ;  nor  war,  because  another  had  a 
contract  for  supplying  the  army  with  mus 
kets  ;  nor  slavery,  because  one  of  the  great 
men  of  the  village  slammed  his  pew-door,  and 
left  the  church  with  a  grand  air,  as  much  as 
to  say,  that  all  that  sort  of  thing  would  not  do, 
and  the  clergy  had  better  confine  themselves 


A   Tale  105 

to  abusing  the  sins  of  the  Hindoos,  and  let  our 
domestic  institutions  alone. 

In  affairs  ecclesiastical  he  had  not  sug 
gested  many  changes.  One  that  he  had 
much  at  heart  was,  that  the  partition  wall 
between  parish  and  church  should  be  quietly 
taken  down,  so  that  all  should  sit  together  at 
the  Supper  of  the  Lord.  He  also  desired  that 
the  organist  should  relinquish  the  old  and 
pernicious  habit  of  preluding  with  triumphal 
marches,  and  running  his  fingers  at  random 
over  the  keys  of  his  instrument,  playing  scraps 
of  secular  music  very  slowly  to  make  them 
sacred,  and  substitute  instead  some  of  the 
beautiful  symphonies  of  Pergolesi,  Palestrina, 
and  Sebastian  Bach. 

He  held  that  sacred  melodies  were  becom 
ing  to  sacred  themes ;  and  did  not  wish,  that, 
in  his  church,  as  in  some  of  the  French  Cana 
dian  churches,  the  holy  profession  of  religion 
should  be  sung  to  the  air  of "  When  one  is 
dead  'tis  for  a  long  time," — the  command 
ments,  aspirations  for  heaven,  and  the  neces 
sity  of  thinking  of  one's  salvation,  to  "  The 
Follies  of  Spain,"  "  Louisa  was  sleeping  in  a 
grove,"  or  a  grand  "  March  of  the  French  Cav 
alry." 

5* 


io6  Kavanagh 

The  study  in  the  tower  was  delightful. 
There  sat  the  young  apostle,  and  meditated 
the  great  design  and  purpose  of  his  life,  the 
removal  of  all  prejudice,  and  uncharitableness, 
and  persecution,  and  the  union  of  all  sects  in 
to  one  church  universal.  Sects  themselves  he 
would  not  destroy,  but  sectarianism  ;  for  sects 
were  to  him  only  as  separate  converging  roads, 
leading  all  to  the  same  celestial  city  of  peace. 
As  he  sat  alone,  and  thought  of  these  things, 
he  heard  the  great  bell  boom  above  him,  and 
remembered  the  ages  when  in  all  Christendom 
there  was  but  one  Church  ;  when  bells  were 
anointed,  baptized,  and  prayed  for,  that,  where 
soever  those  holy  bells  should  sound,  all  deceits 
of  Satan,  all  danger  of  whirlwinds,  thunders, 
lightnings,  and  tempests  might  be  driven  away, 
—  that  devotion  might  increase  in  every  Chris 
tian  when  he  heard  them,  —  and  that  the  Lord 
would  sanctify  them  with  his  Holy  Spirit,  and 
infuse  into  them  the  heavenly  dew  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  He  thought  of  the  great  bell  Guthlac, 
which  an  abbot  of  Croyland  gave  to  his  monas 
tery,  and  of  the  six  others  given  by  his  succes 
sor,  —  so  musical,  that,  when  they  all  rang 
together,  as  Ingulphus  affirms,  there  was  no 
ringing  in  England  equal  to  it.  As  he  lis- 


A    Tale  107 

tened,  the  bell  seemed  to  breathe  upon  the 
air  such  clangorous  sentences  as, 

"  Laudo  Deum  verum,  plebem  voco,  congrego  clerum, 
Defunctos  ploro,  nimbum  fugo,  festaque  honoro." 

Possibly,  also,  at  times,  it  interrupted  his  stud 
ies  and  meditations  with  other  words  than 
these.  Possibly  it  sang  into  his  ears,  as  did 
the  bells  of  Varennes  into  the  ears  of  Panurge, 
— "  Marry  thee,  marry  thee,  marry,  marry  ; 
if  thou  shouldst  marry,  marry,  marry,  thou 
shalt  find  good  therein,  therein,  therein,  so 
marry,  marry." 

From  this  tower  of  contemplation  he  looked 
down  with  mingled  emotions  of  joy  and  sorrow 
on  the  toiling  world  below.  The  wide  pros 
pect  seemed  to  enlarge  his  sympathies  and  his 
charities  ;  and  he  often  thought  of  the  words 
of  Plato  :  "When  we  consider  human  life,  we 
should  view  as  from  a  high  tower  all  things 
terrestrial ;  such  as  herds,  armies,  men  em 
ployed  in  agriculture,  in  marriages,  divorces, 
births,  deaths;  the  tumults  of  courts  of  jus 
tice  ;  desolate  lands ;  various  barbarous  na 
tions  ;  feasts,  wailings,  markets  ;  a  medley  of 
all  things,  in  a  system  adorned  by  contrarie 
ties." 


io8  Kavanagh 

On  the  outside  of  the  door  Kavanagh  had 
written  the  vigorous  line  of  Dante, 

' '  Think  that  To-day  will  never  dawn  again  ! " 

that  it  might  always  serve  as  a  salutation  and 
memento  to  him  as  he  entered.  On  the  inside, 
the  no  less  striking  lines  of  a  more  modern 
bard,  — 

"Lose  this  day  loitering,  't  will  be  the  same  story 
To-morrow,  and  the  next  more  dilatory ; 
For  indecision  brings  its  own  delays, 
And  days  are  lost,  lamenting  o'er  lost  days. 
Are  you  in  earnest  ?     Seize  this  very  minute  ! 
What  you  can  do  or  think  you  can,  begin  it  ! 
Boldness  has  genius,  power,  and  magic  in  it  ! 
Only  engage,  and  then  the  mind  grows  heated  : 
Begin  it,  and  the  work  will  be  completed. " 

Once,  as  he  sat  in  this  retreat  near  noon, 
enjoying  the  silence,  and  the  fresh  air  that 
visited  him  through  the  oval  windows,  his 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  cloud  of  dust,  roll 
ing  along  the  road,  out  of  which  soon  emerged 
a  white  horse,  and  then  a  very  singular,  round- 
shouldered,  old-fashioned  chaise,  containing  an 
elderly  couple,  both  in  black.  What  particu 
larly  struck  him  was  the  gait  of  the  horse,  who 
had  a  very  disdainful  fling  to  his  hind  legs. 
The  slow  equipage  passed,  and  would  have 


A    Tale  109 

been  forever  forgotten,  had  not  Kavanagh 
seen  it  again  at  sunset,  stationary  at  Mr. 
Churchill's  door,  towards  which  he  was  di 
recting  his  steps. 

As  he  entered,  he  met  Mr.  Churchill,  just 
taking  leave  of  an  elderly  lady  and  gentleman 
in  black,  whom  he  recognized  as  the  travellers 
in  the  old  chaise.  Mr.  Churchill  looked  a  lit 
tle  flushed  and  disturbed,  and  bade  his  guests 
farewell  with  a  constrained  air.  On  seeing 
Kavanagh,  he  saluted  him,  and  called  him  by 
name ;  whereupon  the  lady  pursed  up  her 
mouth,  and,  after  a  quick  glance,  turned  away 
her  face  ;  and  the  gentleman  passed  with  a 
lofty  look,  in  which  curiosity,  reproof,  and 
pious  indignation  were  strangely  mingled. 
They  got  into  the  chaise,  with  some  such 
feelings  as  Noah  and  his  wife  may  be  sup 
posed  to  have  had  on  entering  the  ark  ;  the 
whip  descended  upon  the  old  horse  with  un 
usual  vigor,  accompanied  by  a  jerk  of  the 
reins  that  caused  him  to  say  within  himself, 
"What  is  the  matter  now?"  He  then  moved 
off  at  his  usual  pace,  and  with  that  peculiar 
motion  of  the  hind  legs  which  Kavanagh  had 
perceived  in  the  morning. 

Kavanagh  found  his  friend  not  a  little  dis- 


i  IO  Kavanagh 

turbed,  and  evidently  by  the  conversation  of 
the  departed  guests. 

"  That  old  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Churchill, 
"is  your  predecessor,  Mr.  Pendexter.  He 
thinks  we  are  in  a  bad  way  since  he  left  us. 
He  considers  your  liberality  as  nothing  better 
than  rank  Arianism  and  infidelity.  The  fact 
is,  the  old  gentleman  is  a  little  soured ;  the 
vinous  fermentation  in  his  veins  is  now  over, 
and  the  acetous  has  commenced." 

Kavanagh  smiled,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  I,  of  course,  defended  you  stoutly,"  contin 
ued  Mr.  Churchill ;  "  but  if  he  goes  about  the 
village  sowing  such  seed,  there  will  be  tares 
growing  with  the  wheat." 

"I  have  no  fears,"  said  Kavanagh,  very 
quietly. 

Mr.  Churchill's  apprehensions  were  not, 
however,  groundless ;  for  in  the  course  of 
the  week  it  came  out  that  doubts,  surmises, 
and  suspicions  of  Kavanagh's  orthodoxy  were 
springing  up  in  many  weak  but  worthy  minds. 
And  it  was  ever  after  observed,  that,  when 
ever  that  fatal,  apocalyptic  white  horse  and 
antediluvian  chaise  appeared  in  town,  many 
parishioners  were  harassed  with  doubts  and 
perplexed  with  theological  difficulties  and  un 
certainties. 


A    Tale  in 

Nevertheless,  the  main  current  of  opinion 
was  with  him  ;  and  the  parish  showed  their 
grateful  acknowledgment  of  his  zeal  and  sym 
pathy,  by  requesting  him  to  sit  for  his  portrait 
to  a  great  artist  from  the  city,  who  was  pass 
ing  the  summer  months  in  the  village  for 
recreation,  using  his  pencil  only  on  rarest 
occasions  and  as  a  particular  favor.  To  this 
martyrdom  the  meek  Kavanagh  submitted 
without  a  murmur.  During  the  progress  of 
this  work  of  art,  he  was  seldom  left  alone  ; 
some  one  of  his  parishioners  was  there  to 
enliven  him  ;  and  most  frequently  it  was  Miss 
Martha  Amelia  Hawkins,  who  had  become 
very  devout  of  late,  being  zealous  in  the 
Sunday  School,  and  requesting  her  relative 
not  to  walk  between  churches  any  more. 
She  took  a  very  lively  interest  in  the  portrait, 
and  favored  with  many  suggestions  the  distin 
guished  artist,  who  found  it  difficult  to  obtain 
an  expression  which  would  satisfy  the  parish, 
some  wishing  to  have  it  grave,  if  not  severe, 
and  others  with  "Mr.  Kavanagh's  peculiar 
smile."  Kavanagh  himself  was  quite  indif 
ferent  about  the  matter,  and  met  his  fate 
with  Christian  fortitude,  in  a  white  cravat 
and  sacerdotal  robes,  with  one  hand  hanging 


H2  Kavanagh 

down  from  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  the  other 
holding  a  large  book  with  the  fore-finger  be 
tween  its  leaves,  reminding  Mr.  Churchill  of 
Milo  with  his  fingers  in  the  oak.  The  expres 
sion  of  the  face  was  exceedingly  bland  and  re 
signed  ;  perhaps  a  little  wanting  in  strength, 
but  on  the  whole  satisfactory  to  the  parish. 
So  was  the  artist's  price ;  nay,  it  was  even 
held  by  some  persons  to  be  cheap,  consid 
ering  the  quantity  of  background  he  had 
put  in. 


A   Tale  113 


XX. 

MEANWHILE,  things  had  gone  on 
very  quietly  and  monotonously  in  Mr. 
Churchill's  family.  Only  one  event,  and  that 
a  mysterious  one,  had  disturbed  its  serenity. 
It  was  the  sudden  disappearance  of  Lucy,  the 
pretty  orphan  girl  ;  and,  as  the  booted  centi 
pede,  who  had  so  much  excited  Mr.  Churchill's 
curiosity,  disappeared  at  the  same  time,  there 
was  little  doubt  that  they  had  gone  away  to 
gether.  But  whither  gone,  and  wherefore,  re 
mained  a  mystery. 

Mr.  Churchill,  also,  had  had  his  profile,  and 
those  of  his  wife  and  children,  taken,  in  a  very 
humble  style,  by  Mr.  Bantam,  whose  advertise 
ment  he  had  noticed  on  his  way  to  school  near 
ly  a  year  before.  His  own  was  considered  the 
best,  as  a  work  of  art.  The  face  was  cut  out 
entirely  ;  the  collar  of  the  coat  velvet ;  the  shirt- 
collar  very  high  and  white  ;  and  the  top  of  his 
head  ornamented  with  a  crest  of  hair  turning 
up  in  front,  though  his  own  turned  down, — 
which  slight  deviation  from  nature  was  ex- 


ii4  Kavanagh 

plained  and  justified  by  the  painter  as  a  li 
cense  allowable  in  art. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  sitting  down  to  be 
gin,  for  at  least  the  hundredth  time,  the  great 
Romance, —  subject  of  so  many  resolves  and 
so  much  remorse,  so  often  determined  upon 
but  never  begun,  —  a  loud  knock  at  the  street- 
door,  which  stood  wide  open,  announced  a  vis 
itor.  Unluckily,  the  study-door  was  likewise 
open ;  and  consequently,  being  in  full  view, 
he  found  it  impossible  to  refuse  himself;  nor, 
in  fact,  would  he  have  done  so,  had  all  the 
doors  been  shut  and  bolted,  —  the  art  of  refus 
ing  one's  self  being  at  that  time  but  imperfect 
ly  understood  in  Fairmeadow.  Accordingly, 
the  visitor  was  shown  in. 

He  announced  himself  as  Mr.  Hathaway. 
Passing  through  the  village,  he  could  not  deny 
himself  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  Mr.  Church 
ill,  whom  he  knew  by  his  writings  in  the  peri 
odicals,  though  not  personally.  He  wished, 
moreover,  to  secure  the  co-operation  of  one, 
already  so  favorably  known  to  the  literary 
world,  in  a  new  Magazine  he  was  about  to 
establish,  in  order  to  raise  the  character  of 
American  literature,  which,  in  his  opinion, 
the  existing  reviews  and  magazines  had  en' 


A    Tale  1 1 5 

tirely  failed  to  accomplish.  A  daily  increas 
ing  want  of  something  better  was  felt  by  the 
public  ;  and  the  time  had  come  for  the  estab 
lishment  of  such  a  periodical  as  he  proposed. 
After  explaining,  in  rather  a  florid  and  exu 
berant  manner,  his  plan  and  prospects,  he 
entered  more  at  large  into  the  subject  of 
American  literature,  which  it  was  his  design 
to  foster  and  patronize. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  he,  "  that  we 
want  a  national  literature  commensurate  with 
our  mountains  and  rivers,  —  commensurate 
with  Niagara,  and  the  Alleghanies,  and  the 
Great  Lakes  ! " 

"  Oh  ! " 

"  We  want  a  national  epic  that  shall  corre 
spond  to  the  size  of  the  country  ;  that  shall  be 
to  all  other  epics  what  Banvard's  Panorama  of 
the  Mississippi  is  to  all  other  paintings,  —  the 
largest  in  the  world  ! " 

"Ah!" 

"  We  want  a  national  drama  in  which  scope 
enough  shall  be  given  to  our  gigantic  ideas, 
and  to  the  unparalleled  activity  and  progress 
of  our  people  !  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  In  a  word,  we  want  a  national  literature 


1 1 6  Kavanagh 

altogether  shaggy  and  unshorn,  that  shall 
shake  the  earth,  like  a  herd  of  buffaloes  thun 
dering  over  the  prairies  ! " 

"  Precisely,"  interrupted  Mr.  Churchill ;  "  but 
excuse  me  !  —  are  you  not  confounding  things 
that  have  no  analogy  ?  Great  has  a  very  dif 
ferent  meaning  when  applied  to  a  river,  and 
when  applied  to  a  literature.  Large  and  shal 
low  may  perhaps  be  applied  to  both.  Litera 
ture  is  rather  an  image  of  the  spiritual  world, 
than  of  the  physical,  is  it  not  ?  —  of  the  inter 
nal,  rather  than  the  external.  Mountains, 
lakes,  and  rivers  are,  after  all,  only  its  scenery 
and  decorations,  not  its  substance  and  essence. 
A  man  will  not  necessarily  be  a  great  poet 
because  he  lives  near  a  great  mountain.  Nor, 
being  a  poet,  will  he  necessarily  write  better 
poems  than  another,  because  he  lives  nearer 
Niagara." 

"  But,  Mr.  Churchill,  you  do  not  certainly 
mean  to  deny  the  influence  of  scenery  on  the 
mind  ? " 

"  No,  (\nly  to  deny  that  it  can  create  genius. 
At  best,  it  can  only  develop  it.  Switzerland 
has  produced  no  extraordinary  poet;  nor,  as 
far  as  I  know,  have  the  Andes,  or  the  Him 
alaya  mountains,  or  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
in  Afrir.a ." 


A    Tale  117 

"  But,  at  all  events,"  urged  Mr.  Hathaway, 
"  let  us  have  our  literature  national.  If  it  is 
not  national,  it  is  nothing." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  a  great  deal 
Nationality  is  a  good  thing  to  a  certain  extent, 
but  universality  is  better.  All  that  is  best  in 
the  great  poets  of  all  countries  is  not  what  is 
national  in  them,  but  what  is  universal.  Their 
roots  are  in  their  native  soil ;  but  their  branch 
es  wave  in  the  unpatriotic  air,  that  speaks  the 
same  language  unto  all  men,  and  their  leaves 
shine  with  the  illimitable  light  that  pervades 
all  lands.  Let  us  throw  all  the  windows  open  ; 
let  us  admit  the  light  and  air  on  all  sides ;  that 
we  may  look  towards  the  four  corners  of  the 
heavens,  and  not  always  in  the  same  direction." 

"But  you  admit  nationality  to  be  a  good 
thing  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  not  carried  too  far  ;  still,  I  con 
fess,  it  rather  limits  one's  views  of  truth. 
I  prefer  what  is  natural.  Mere  nationality  is 
often  ridiculous.  Every  one  smiles  when  he 
hears  the  Icelandic  proverb,  '  Iceland  is  the 
best  land  the  sun  shines  upon.'  Let  us  be 
natural,  and  we  shall  be  national  enough. 
Besides,  our  literature  can  be  strictly  national 
only  so  far  as  our  character  and  modes  of 


1 1 8  T*Kavanagh 

thought  differ  from  those  of  other  nations. 
Now,  as  we  are  very  like  the  English,  —  are, 
in  fact,  English  under  a  different  sky,  —  I  do 
not  see  how  our  literature  can  be  very  differ 
ent  from  theirs.  Westward  from  hand  to  hand 
we  pass  the  lighted  torch,  but  it  was  lighted 
at  the  old  domestic  fireside  of  England." 

"  Then  you  think  our  literature  is  never  to 
be  anything  but  an  imitation  of  the  English  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  not  an  imitation,  but,  as 
some  one  has  said,  a  continuation." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  take  a  very  nar 
row  view  of  the  subject."  . 

"  On  the  contrary,  a  very  broad  one.  No 
literature  is  complete  until  the  language  in 
which  it  is  written  is  dead.  We  may  well  be 
proud  of  our  task  and  of  our  position.  Let  us 
see  if  we  can  build  in  any  way  worthy  of  our 
forefathers." 

"  But  I  insist  upon  originality." 

"  Yes  ;  but  without  spasms  and  convulsions. 
Authors  must  not,  like  Chinese  soldiers,  ex 
pect  to  win  victories  by  turning  somersets  in 
the  air." 

"  Well,  really,  the  prospect  from  your  point 
of  view  is  not  very  brilliant.  Pray,  what  do 
you  think  of  our  national  literature  ?  " 


A   Tale  ug 

"Simply,  that  a  national  literature  is  not 
the  growth  of  a  day.  Centuries  must  contrib 
ute  their  dew  and  sunshine  to  it.  Our  own  is 
growing  slowly  but  surely,  striking  its  roots 
downward,  and  its  branches  upward,  as  is 
natural ;  and  I  do  not  wish,  for  the  sake  of 
what  some  people  call  originality,  to  invert 
it,  and  try  to  make  it  grow  with  its  roots  in 
the  air.  And  as  for  having  it  so  savage  and 
wild  as  you  want  it,  I  have  only  to  say,  that  all 
literature,  as  well  as  all  art,  is  the  result  of  cul 
ture  and  intellectual  refinement." 

"Ah !  we  do  not  want  art  and  refinement ;  we 
want  genius,  —  untutored,  wild,  original,  free." 

"But,  if  this  genius  is  to  find  any  expression, 
it  must  employ  art ;  for  art  is  the  external  ex 
pression  of  our  thoughts.  Many  have  genius, 
but,  wanting  art,  are  forever  dumb.  The  two 
must  go  together  to  form  the  great  poet, 
painter,  or  sculptor." 

"  In  that  sense,  very  well." 

"  I  was  about  to  say  also  that  I  thought  our 
literature  would  finally  not  be  wanting  in  a 
kind  of  universality.  As  the  blood  of  all  na 
tions  is  mingling  with  our  own,  so  will  their 
thoughts  and  feelings  finally  mingle  in  our 
literature.  We  shall  draw  from  the  Germans, 


1 20  Kavanagh 

tenderness ;  from  the  Spaniards,  passion  ;  from 
the  French,  vivacity,  —  to  mingle  more  and 
more  with  our  English  solid  sense.  And  this 
will  give  us  universality,  so  much  to  be  desired." 

"  If  that  is  your  way  of  thinking,"  inter 
rupted  the  visitor,  "you  will  like  the  work  I 
am  now  engaged  upon." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  great  national  drama,  the  scene  of  which 
is  laid  in  New  Mexico.  It  is  entitled  Don  Se- 
rafin,  or  the  Marquis  of  the  Seven  Churches. 
The  principal  characters  are  Don  Serafin,  an 
old  Spanish  hidalgo  ;  his  daughter  Deseada ; 
and  Fra  Serapion,  the  Curate.  The  play  opens 
with  Fra  Serapion  at  breakfast ;  on  the  table 
a  game-cock,  tied  by  the  leg,  sharing  his  mas 
ter's  meal.  Then  follows  a  scene  at  the  cock 
pit,  where  the  Marquis  stakes  the  remnant  of 
his  fortune  —  his  herds  and  hacienda  —  on  a 
favorite  cock,  and  loses." 

"But  what  do  you  know  about  cock-fight 
ing  ? "  demanded,  rather  than  asked,  the  aston 
ished  and  half-laughing  schoolmaster. 

"  I  am  not  very  well  informed  on  that  sub 
ject,  and  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  could 
not  recommend  some  work." 

"The   only  work    I    am    acquainted  with," 


A    Tale  121 

replied  Mr.  Churchill,  "is  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Pegge's  Essay  on  Cock-fighting  among  the 
Ancients ;  and  I  hardly  see  how  you  could 
apply  that  to  the  Mexicans." 

"Why,  they  are  a  kind  of  ancients,  you 
know.  I  certainly  will  hunt  up  the  essay  you 
mention,  and  see  what  I  can  do  with  it." 

"And  all  I  know  about  the  matter  itself," 
continued  Mr.  Churchill,  "is,  that  Mark  An 
tony  was  a  patron  of  the  pit,  and  that  his 
cocks  were  always  beaten  by  Caesar's ;  and 
that,  when  Themistocles  the  Athenian  gen 
eral  was  marching  against  the  Persians,  he 
halted  his  army  to  see  a  cock-fight,  and  made 
a  speech  to  his  soldiery,  to  the  effect,  that 
those  animals  fought,  not  for  the  gods  of  their 
country,  nor  for  the  monuments  of  their  ances 
tors,  nor  for  glory,  nor  for  freedom,  nor  for 
their  children,  but  only  for  the  sake  of  victory. 
On  his  return  to  Athens,  he  established  cock 
fights  in  that  capital.  But  how  this  is  to  help 
you  in  Mexico  I  do  not  see,  unless  you  intro 
duce  Santa  Anna,  and  compare  him  to  Caesar 
and  Themistocles." 

"  That  is  it ;  I  will  do  so.  It  will  give  his 
toric  interest  to  the  play.  I  thank  you  for  the 
suggestion." 

6 


122  Kavanagh 

"The  subject  is  certainly  very  original ;  but 
it  does  not  strike  me  as  particularly  national." 

"  Prospective,  you  see ! "  said  Mr.  Hathaway, 
with  a  penetrating  look. 

"Ah,  yes  ;  I  perceive  you  fish  with  a  heavy 
sinker,  —  down,  far  down  in  the  future, — 
among  posterity,  as  it  were," 

"  You  have  seized  the  idea.  Besides,  I  ob 
viate  your  objection,  by  introducing  an  Ameri 
can  circus  company  from  the  United  States, 
which  enables  me  to  bring  horses  on  the  stage 
and  produce  great  scenic  effect." 

"  That  is  a  bold  design.  The  critics  will  be 
out  upon  you  without  fail." 

"  Never  fear  that.  I  know  the  critics  root 
and  branch,  —  out  and  out,  —  have  summered 
them,  and  wintered  them,  —  in  fact,  am  one  of 
them  myself.  Very  good  fellows  are  the  crit 
ics,  are  they  not  ? " 

"  O,  yes ;  only  they  have  such  a  pleasant 
way  of  talking  down  upon  authors." 

"  If  they  did  not  talk  down  upon  them,  they 
would  show  no  superiority ;  and,  of  course, 
that  would  never  do." 

"  Nor  is  it  to  be  wondered  at,  that  authors 
are  sometimes  a  little  irritable.  I  often  recall 
the  poet  in  the  Spanish  fable,  whose  manu- 


A    Tale  123 

scripts  were  devoured  by  mice,  till  at  length 
he  put  some  corrosive  sublimate  into  his  ink, 
and  was  never  troubled  again." 

"Why  don't  you  try  it  yourself?"  said  Mr. 
Hathaway,  rather  sharply. 

"O,"  answered  Mr.  Churchill,"  with  a  smile 
of  humility,  "  I  and  my  writings  are  too  insig 
nificant.  They  may  gnaw  and  welcome.  I  do 
not  like  to  have  poison  about,  even  for  such 
purposes." 

"  By,  the  way,  Mr.  Churchill,"  said  the  vis 
itor,  adroitly  changing  the  subject,  "  do  you 
know  Honeywell  ? " 

"  No,  I  do  not.     Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Honeywell  the  poet,  I  mean." 

"  No,  I  never  even  heard  of  him.  There  are 
so  many  poets  now-a-days !  " 

"  That  is  very  strange  indeed  !  Why,  I  con 
sider  Honeywell  one  of  the  finest  writers  in 
the  country, — quite  in  the  front  rank  of 
American  authors.  He  is  a  real  poet,  and 
no  mistake.  Nature  made  him  with  her  shirt 
sleeves  rolled  up." 

"  What  has  he  published  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  published  anything  yet,  except 
in  the  newspapers.  But,  this  autumn,  he  is 
going  to  bring  out  a  volume  of  poems.  I  could 


124  Kavanagh 

not  help  having  my  joke  with  him  about  it.  I 
told  him  he  had  better  print  it  on  cartridge- 
paper." 

"  Why  so  ? " 

"  Why,  to  make  it  go  off  better ;  don't  you 
understand  ? " 

"  O,  yes  ;  now  that  you  explain  it.  Very 
good." 

"  Honeywell  is  going  to  write  for  the  Maga 
zine  ;  he  is  to  furnish  a  poem  for  every  num 
ber  ;  and  as  he  succeeds  equally  well  in  the 
plaintive  and  didactic  style  of  Wordsworth, 
and  the  more  vehement  and  impassioned  style 
of  Byron,  I  think  we  shall  do  very  well." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  to  call  the  new 
Magazine  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Churchill. 

"  We  think  of  calling  it  The  Niagara." 

"  Why,  that  is  the  name  of  our  fire-engine ! 
Why  not  call  it  the  Extinguisher  ?  " 

"  That  is  also  a  good  name ;  but  I  prefer 
The  Niagara,  as  more  national.  And  I  hope, 
Mr.  ChurchilV,  you  will  let  us  count  upon  you. 
We  shouldTme  to  have  an  article  from  your 
pen  for  every  number." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  pay  your  contributors  ? " 

"  Not  the  first  year,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  But 
after  that,  if  the  work  succeeds,  we  shall  pay 


A   Tale  125 

handsomely.  And,  of  course,  it  will  succeed, 
for  we  mean  it  shall ;  and  we  never  say  fail. 
There  is  no  such  word  in  our  dictionary.  Be 
fore  the  year  is  out,  we  mean  to  print  fifty 
thousand  copies ;  and  fifty  thousand  copies  will 
give  us,  at  least,  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  readers  ;  and,  with  such  an  audience,  any 
author  might  be  satisfied." 

He  had  touched  at  length  the  right  strings 
in  Mr.  Churchill's  bosom  ;  and  they  vibrated 
to  the  touch  with  pleasant  harmonies.  Liter 
ary  vanity  !  —  literary  ambition  !  The  editor 
perceived  it ;  and  so  cunningly  did  he  play 
upon  these  chords,  that,  before  he  departed, 
Mr.  Churchill  had  promised  to  write  for  him 
a  series  of  papers  on  Obscure  Martyrs,  —  a 
kind  of  tragic  history  of  the  unrecorded  and 
life-long  sufferings  of  women,  which  hitherto 
had  found  no  historian,  save  now  and  then  a 
novelist. 

Notwithstanding  the  certainty  of  success,  — 
notwithstanding  the  fifty  thousand  subscribers 
and  the  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  read 
ers,  —  the  Magazine  never  went  into  opera 
tion.  Still  the  dream  was  enough  to  occupy 
Mr.  Churchill's  thoughts,  and  to  withdraw 
them  entirely  from  his  Romance  for  many 
weeks  together. 


126  Kavanagk 


XXI. 

EVERY  State,  and  almost  every  county,  of 
New  England,  has  its  Roaring  Brook,  — 
a  mountain  streamlet,  overhung  by  woods,  im 
peded  by  a  mill,  encumbered  by  fallen  trees, 
but  ever  racing,  rushing,  roaring  down  through 
gurgling  gullies,  and  filling  the  forest  with  its 
delicious  sound  and  freshness  ;  the  drinking- 
place  of  home-returning  herds  ;  the  mysteri 
ous  haunt  of  squirrels  and  blue-jays ;  the 
sylvan  retreat  of  school-girls,  who  frequent 
it  on  summer  holidays,  and  mingle  their  rest 
less  thoughts,  their  overflowing  fancies,  their 
fair  imaginings,  with  its  restless,  exuberant, 
and  rejoicing  stream. 

Fairmeadow  had  no  Roaring  Brook.  As 
its  name  indicates,  it  was  too  level  a  land  for 
that.  But  the  neighboring  town  of  Westwood, 
lying  more  inland,  and  among  the  hills,  had 
one  of  the  fairest  and  fullest  of  all  the  brooks 
that  roar.  It  was  the  boast  of  the  neighbor 
hood.  Not  to  have  seen  it,  was  to  have  seen 
no  brook,  no  waterfall,  no  mountain  ravine. 


A    Tale  127 

And,  consequently,  to  behold  it  and  admire, 
was  Kavanagh  taken  by  Mr.  Churchill  as  soon 
as  the  summer  vacation  gave  leisure  and  op 
portunity.  The  party  consisted  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Churchill,  and  Alfred,  in  a  one-horse 
chaise  ;  and  Cecilia,  Alice,  and  Kavanagh,  in 
a  caryall,  —  the  fourth  seat  in  which  was  occu 
pied  by  a  large  basket,  containing  what  the 
Squire  of  the  Grove,  in  Don  Quixote,  called 
his  "  fiambreras,"  —  that  magniloquent  Cas- 
tilian  word  for  cold  collation.  Over  warm 
uplands,  smelling  of  clover  and  mint  ;  through 
cool  glades,  still  wet  with  the  rain  of  yester 
day  ;  along  the  river ;  across  the  rattling  and 
tilting  planks  of  wooden  bridges  ;  by  or 
chards  ;  by  the  gates  of  fields,  with  the  tall 
mullen  growing  at  the  bars ;  by  stone  walls 
overrun  with  privet  and  barberries  ;  in  sun 
and  heat,  in  shadow  and  coolness,  —  forward 
drove  the  happy  party  on  that  pleasant  sum 
mer  morning. 

At  length  they  reached  the  Roaring  Brook. 
From  a  gorge  in  the  mountains,  through  a 
long,  winding  gallery  of  birch,  and  beech,  and 
pine,  leaped  the  bright,  brown  waters  of  the 
jubilant  streamlet  ;  out  of  the  woods,  across 
the  plain,  under  the  rude  bridge  of  logs,  into 


128  Kavanagh 

the  woods  again,  —  a  day  between  two  nights. 
With  it  went  a  song  that  made  the  heart  sing 
likewise  ;  a  song  of  joy,  and  exultation,  and 
freedom  ;  a  continuous  and  unbroken  song  of 
life,  and  pleasure,  and  perpetual  youth.  Like 
the  old  Icelandic  Scald,  the  streamlet  seemed 
to  say,  — 

"  I  am  possessed  of  songs  such  as  neither 
the  spouse  of  a  king,  or  any  son  of  man,  can 
repeat ;  one  of  them  is  called  the  Helper  ;  it 
will  help  thee  at  thy  need,  in  sickness,  grief, 
and  all  adversity." 

The  little  party  left  their  carriages  at  a  farm 
house  by  the  bridge,  and  followed  the  rough 
road  on  foot  along  the  brook  ;  now  close  upon 
it,  now  shut  out  by  intervening  trees.  Mr. 
Churchill,  bearing  the  basket  on  his  arm, 
walked  in  front  with  his  wife  and  Alfred. 
Kavanagh  came  behind  with  Cecilia  and 
Alice.  The  music  of  the  brook  silenced  all 
conversation  ;  only  occasional  exclamations  of 
delight  were  uttered,  —  the  irrepressible  ap 
plause  of  fresh  and  sensitive  natures,  in  a 
scene  so  lovely.  Presently,  turning  off  from 
the  road,  which  led  directly  to  the  mill,  and 
was  rough  with  the  tracks  of  heavy  wheels, 
they  went  down  to  the  margin  of  the  brook. 


A    Tale  129 

"  How  indescribably  beautiful  this  brown 
water  is  ! "  exclaimed  Kavanagh.  "  It  is  like 
wine,  or  the  nectar  of  the  gods  of  Olympus  ; 
as  if  the  falling  Hebe  had  poured  it  from  her 
goblet." 

"  More  like  the  mead  or  metheglin  of  the 
northern  gods,"  said  Mr.  Churchill,  "  spilled 
from  the  drinking-horns  of  Valhalla." 

But  all  the  ladies  thought  Kavanagh's  com 
parison  the  better  of  the  two,  and  in  fact  the 
best  that  could  be  made  ;  and  Mr.  Churchill 
was  obliged  to  retract  and  apologize  for  his 
allusion  to  the  celestial  ale-house  of  Odin. 

Erelong  they  were  forced  to  cross  the 
brook,  stepping  from  stone  to  stone,  over  the 
little  rapids  and  cascades.  All  crossed  lightly, 
easily,  safely  ;  even  "  the  sumpter  mule,"  as 
Mr.  Churchill  called  himself,  on  account  of  the 
pannier.  Only  Cecilia  lingered  behind,  as  if 
afraid  to  cross.  Cecilia,  who  had  crossed  at 
that  same  place  a  hundred  times  before, — • 
Cecilia,  who  had  the  surest  foot,  and  the  firm 
est  nerves,  of  all  the  village  maidens,  —  she 
now  stood  irresolute,  seized  with  a  sudden 
tremor ;  blushing,  and  laughing  at  her  own 
timidity,  and  yet  unable  to  advance.  Kavan 
agh  saw  her  embarrassment  and  hastened 
6*  i 


1 30  Kavanagh 

back  to  help  her.  Her  hand  trembled  in  his  ; 
she  thanked  him  with  a  gentle  look  and  word. 
His  whole  soul  was  softened  within  him.  His 
attitude,  his  countenance,  his  voice,  were  alike 
submissive  and  subdued.  He  was  as  one  pen 
etrated  with  tenderest  emotions. 

It  is  difficult  to  know  at  what  moment 
love  begins  ;  it  is  less  difficult  to  know  that 
it  has  begun.  A  thousand  heralds  proclaim 
it  to  the  listening  air  ;  a  thousand  ministers 
and  messengers  betray  it  to  the  eye.  Tone, 
act,  attitude  and  look,  —  the  signals  upon 
the  countenance,  —  the  electric  telegraph  of 
touch  ;  all  these  betray  the  yielding  citadel 
before  the  word  itself  is  uttered,  which,  like 
the  key  surrendered,  opens  every  avenue  and 
gate  of  entrance,  and  makes  retreat  impos 
sible  ! 

The  day  passed  delightfully  with  all.  They 
sat  upon  the  stones  and  the  roots  of  trees. 
Cecilia  read,  from  a  volume  she  had  brought 
with  her,  poems  that  rhymed  with  the  run 
ning  water.  The  others  listened  and  com 
mented.  Little  Alfred  waded  in  the  stream, 
with  his  bare  white  feet,  and  launched  boats 
over  the  falls.  Noon  had  been  fixed  upon  for 
dining ;  but  they  anticipated  it  by  at  least  an 


A    Tale  131 

hour.  The  great  basket  was  opened  ;  endless 
sandwiches  were  drawn  forth,  and  a  cold  pas 
try,  as  large  as  that  of  the  Squire  of  the  Grove. 
During  the  repast,  Mr.  Churchill  slipped  into 
the  brook,  while  in  the  act  of  handing  a  sand 
wich  to  his  wife,  which  caused  unbounded 
mirth  ;  and  Kavanagh  sat  down  on  a  mossy 
trunk,  that  gave  way  beneath  him,  and  crum 
bled  into  powder.  This,  also,  was  received 
with  great  merriment. 

After  dinner,  they  ascended  the  brook  still 
farther,  —  indeed,  quite  to  the  mill,  which  was 
not  going.  It  had  been  stopped  in  the  midst 
of  its  work.  The  saw  still  held  its  hungry 
teeth  fixed  in  the  heart  of  a  pine.  Mr. 
Churchill  took  occasion  to  make  known  to 
the  company  his  long  cherished  purpose  of 
writing  a  poem  called  "  The  Song  of  the  Saw- 
Mill/'  and  enlarged  on  the  beautiful  associa 
tions  of  flood  and  forest  connected  with  the 
theme.  He  delighted  himself  and  his  audience 
with  the  fine  fancies  he  meant  to  weave  into 
his  poem,  and  wondered  nobody  had  thought 
of  the  subject  before.  Kavanagh  said  it  had 
been  thought  of  before  ;  and  cited  Kerner's 
little  poem,  so  charmingly  translated  by  Bry 
ant.  Mr.  Churchill  had  not  seen  it.  Kavan- 


132  Kavanagh 

agh  looked  into  his  pocket-book  for  it,  but  it 
was  not  to  be  found ;  still  he  was  sure  that 
there  was  such  a  poem.  Mr.  Churchill  aban 
doned  his  design.  He  had  spoken,  —  and  the 
treasure,  just  as  he  had  touched  it  with  his 
hand,  was  gone  forever. 

The  party  returned  home  as  it  came,  all 
tired  and  happy,  excepting  little  Alfred,  who 
was  tired  and  cross,  and  sat  sleepy  and  sag 
ging  on  his  father's  knee,  with  his  hat  cocked 
rather  fiercely  over  his  eyes. 


A   Tale  133 


XXII. 

THE  brown  autumn  came.  Out  of  doors, 
it  brought  to  the  fields  the  prodigality 
of  the  golden  harvest,  —  to  the  forest,  revela 
tions  of  light,  —  and  to  the  sky,  the  sharp  air, 
the  morning  mist,  the  red  clouds  at  evening. 
Within  doors,  the  sense  of  seclusion,  the  still 
ness  of  closed  and  curtained  windows,  mus 
ings  by  the  fireside,  books,  friends,  conversa 
tion,  and  the  long,  meditative  evenings.  To 
the  farmer,  it  brought  surcease  of  toil,  —  to 
the  scholar,  that  sweet  delirium  of  the  brain 
which  changes  toil  to  pleasure.  It  brought 
the  wild  duck  back  to  the  reedy  marshes  of 
the  south  ;  it  brought  the  wild  song  back  to 
the  fervid  brain  of  the  poet.  Without,  the 
village  street  was  paved  with  gold  ;  the  river 
ran  red  with  the  reflection  of  the  leaves. 
Within,  the  faces  of  friends  brightened  the 
gloomy  walls ;  the  returning  footsteps  of  the 
long-absent  gladdened  the  threshold ;  and  all 
the  sweet  amenities  of  social  life  again  re 
sumed  their  interrupted  reign. 


1 34  Kavanagh 

Kavanagh  preached  a  sermon  on  the  com 
ing  of  autumn.  He  chose  his  text  from 
Isaiah,  — "  Who  is  this  that  cometh  from 
Edom,  with  dyed  garments  from  Bozrah  ? 
this  that  is  glorious  in  his  apparel,  travelling 
in  the  greatness  of  his  strength  ?  Wherefore 
art  thou  red  in  thine  apparel,  and  thy  gar 
ments  like  him  that  treadeth  in  the  wine- 
vat  ? " 

To  Mr.  Churchill,  this  beloved  season  —  this 
Joseph  with  his  coat  of  many  colors,  as  he  was 
fond  of  calling  it  —  brought  an  unexpected 
guest,  the  forlorn,  forsaken  Lucy.  The  sur 
mises  of  the  family  were  too  true.  She  had 
wandered  away  with  the  Briareus  of  boots. 
She  returned  alone,  in  destitution  and  de 
spair  ;  and  often,  in  the  grief  of  a  broken 
heart  and  a  bewildered  brain,  was  heard  to 
say,— 

"  O,  how  I  wish  I  were  a  Christian !  If  I 
were  only  a  Christian,  I  would  not  live  any 
longer ;  I  would  kill  myself !  I  am  too  wretch, 
ed!" 

A  few  days  afterwards,  a  gloomy-looking 
man  rode  through  the  town  on  horseback, 
stopping  at  every  corner,  and  crying  into 
every  street,  with  a  loud  and  solemn  voice,  — * 


A   Tale  135 

"  Prepare  !  prepare  !  prepare  to  meet  the 
living  God ! " 

It  was  one  of  that  fanatical  sect,  who  be 
lieved  the  end  of  the  world  was  imminent, 
and  had  prepared  their  ascension  robes  to  be 
lifted  up  in  clouds  of  glory,  while  the  worn- 
out,  weary  world  was  to  burn  with  fire  be 
neath  them,  and  a  new  and  fairer  earth  to  be 
prepared  for  their  inheritance.  The  appear 
ance  of  this  forerunner  of  the  end  of  the  world 
was  followed  by  numerous  camp-meetings,  held 
in  the  woods  near  the  village,  to  whose  white 
tents  and  leafy  chapels  many  went  for  conso 
lation  and  found  despair. 


136  Kavanagh 


XXIII. 

AGAIN  the  two  crumbly  old  women  sat 
and  talked  together  in  the  little  parlor  of 
the  gloomy  house  under  the  poplars,  and  the 
two  girls  sat  above,  holding  each  other  by  the 
hand,  thoughtful,  and  speaking  only  at  inter 
vals. 

Alice  was  unusually  sad  and  silent.  The 
mists  were  already  gathering  over  her  vis 
ion, — those  mists  that  were  to  deepen  and 
darken  as  the  season  advanced,  until  the  ex 
ternal  world  should  be  shrouded  and  finally 
shut  from  her  view.  Already  the  landscape 
began  to  wear  a  pale  and  sickly  hue,  as  if  the 
sun  were  withdrawing  farther  and  farther,  and 
were  soon  wholly  to  disappear,  as  in  a  north 
ern  winter.  But  to  brighten  this  northern 
winter  there  now  arose  within  her  a  soft,  au 
roral  light.  Yes,  the  auroral  light  of  love, 
blushing  through  the  whole  heaven  of  her 
thoughts.  She  had  not  breathed  that  word  to 
herself,  nor  did  she  recognize  any  thrill  of  pas 
sion  in  the  new  emotion  she  experienced.  But 


A   Talc  137 

love  it  was ;  and  it  lifted  her  soul  into  a  region, 
which  she  at  once  felt  was  native  to  it,  —  into 
a  subtler  ether,  which  seemed  its  natural  ele 
ment. 

This  feeling,  however,  was  not  all  exhilara 
tion.  It  brought  with  it  its  own  peculiar  lan 
guor  and  sadness,  its  fluctuations  and  swift 
vicissitudes  of  excitement  and  depression.  To 
this  the  trivial  circumstances  of  life  contrib 
uted.  Kavanagh  had  met  her  in  the  street, 
and  had  passed  her  without  recognition  ;  and, 
in  the  bitterness  of  the  moment,  she  forgot  that 
she  wore  a  thick  veil,  which  entirely  concealed 
her  face.  At  an  evening  party  at  Mr.  Church 
ill's,  by  a  kind  of  fatality,  Kavanagh  had  stood 
very  near  her  for  a  long  time,  but  with  his  back 
turned,  conversing  with  Miss  Hawkins,  from 
whose  toils,  he  was,  in  fact,  though  vainly, 
struggling  to  extricate  himself;  and,  in  the 
irritation  of  supposed  neglect,  Alice  had  said 
to  herself,  — 

"This  is  the  kind  of  woman  which  most 
fascinates  men ! " 

But  these  cruel  moments  of  pain  were  few 
and  short,  while  those  of  delight  were  many 
and  lasting.  In  a  life  so  lonely,  and  with  so 
little  to  enliven  and  embellish  it  as  hers,  the 


138  Kavanagh 

guest  in  disguise  was  welcomed  with  ardor, 
and  entertained  without  fear  or  suspicion. 
Had  he  been  feared  or  suspected,  he  would 
have  been  no  longer  dangerous.  He  came  as 
friendship,  where  friendship  was  most  needed  ; 
he  came  as  devotion,  where  her  holy  ministra 
tions  were  always  welcome. 

Somewhat  differently  had  the  same  passion 
come  to  the  heart  of  Cecilia ;  for  as  the  heart 
is,  so  is  love  to  the  heart.  It  partakes  of  its 
strength  or  weakness,  its  health  or  disease.  In 
Cecilia,  it  but  heightened  the  keen  sensation 
of  life.  To  all  eyes,  she  became  more  beauti 
ful,  more  radiant,  more  lovely,  though  they 
knew  not  why.  When  she  and  Kavanagh 
first  met,  it  was  hardly  as  strangers  meet, 
but  rather  as  friends  long  separated.  When 
they  first  spoke  to  each  other,  it  seemed  but 
as  the  renewal  of  some  previous  interrupted 
conversation.  Their  souls  flowed  together  at 
once,  without  turbulence  or  agitation,  like  wa 
ters  on  the  same  level.  As  they  found  each 
other  without  seeking,  so  their  intercourse 
was  without  affectation  and  without  embar 
rassment. 

Thus,  while  Alice,  unconsciously  to  herself, 
desired  the  love  of  Kavanagh,  Cecilia,  as  un- 


A    Tale  139 

consciously,  assumed  it  as  already  her  own. 
Alice  keenly  felt  her  own  unworthiness  ;  Ce 
cilia  made  no  comparison  of  merit.  When 
Kavanagh  was  present,  Alice  was  happy,  but 
embarrassed;  Cecilia,  joyous  and  natural.  The 
former  feared  she  might  displease  ;  the  latter 
divined  from  the  first  that  she  already  pleased. 
In  both,  this  was  the  intuition  of  the  heart. 

So  sat  the  friends  together,  as  they  had  done 
so  many  times  before.  But  now,  for  the  first 
time,  each  cherished  a  secret,  which  she  did 
not  confide  to  the  other.  Daily,  for  many 
weeks,  the  feathered  courier  had  come  and 
gone  from  window  to  window,  but  this  secret 
had  never  been  intrusted  to  his  keeping.  Al 
most  daily  the  friends  had  met  and  talked  to 
gether,  but  this  secret  had  not  been  told. 
That  could  not  be  confided  to  another,  which 
had  not  been  confided  to  themselves  ;  that 
could  not  be  fashioned  into  words,  which  was 
not  yet  fashioned  into  thoughts,  but  was  still 
floating,  vague  and  formless,  through  the 
mind.  Nay,  had  it  been  stated  in  words, 
each,  perhaps,  would  have  denied  it.  The 
distinct  apparition  of  this  fair  spirit,  in  a  vis 
ible  form,  would  have  startled  them  ;  though, 
while  it  haunted  all  the  chambers  of  their 


140  Kavanagk 

souls  as  an  invisible  presence,  it  gave  them 
only  solace  and  delight. 

"  How  very  feverish  your  hand  is,  dearest ! " 
said  Cecilia.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you 
unwell  ? " 

"  Those  are  the  very  words  my  mother  said 
to  me  this  morning, "  replied  Alice.  "  I  feel 
rather  languid  and  tired,  that  is  all.  I  could 
not  sleep  last  night ;  I  never  can,  when  it 
rains." 

"  Did  it  rain  last  night  ?  I  did  not  hear 
it." 

"  Yes  ;  about  midnight,  quite  hard.  I  lis 
tened  to  it  for  hours.  I  love  to  lie  awake, 
and  hear  the  drops  fall  on  the  roof,  and  on 
the  leaves.  It  throws  me  into  a  delicious, 
dreamy  state,  which  I  like  much  better  than 
sleep." 

Cecilia  looked  tenderly  at  her  pale  face. 
Her  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  on  each  cheek 
was  a  crimson  signal,  the  sight  of  which  would 
have  given  her  mother  so  much  anguish,  that, 
perhaps,  it  was  better  for  her  to  be  blind  than 
to  see. 

"  When  you  enter  the  land  of  dreams,  Alice, 
you  come  into  my  peculiar  realm.  I  am  the 
queen  of  that  country,  you  know.  But,  of 


A   Tale  141 

late,  I  have  thought  of  resigning  my  throne. 
These  endless  reveries  are  really  a  great  waste 
of  time  and  strength." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  Mr.  Kavanagh  thinks  so,  too. 
We  talked  about  it  the  other  evening  ;  and 
afterwards,  upon  reflection,  I  thought  he  was 
right." 

And  the  friends  resolved,  half  in  jest  and 
half  in  earnest,  that,  from  that  day  forth,  the 
gate  of  their  day-dreams  should  be  closed. 
And  closed  it  was,  erelong  ;  —  for  one,  by  the 
Angel  of  Life ;  for  the  other,  by  the  Angel  of 
Death  ! 


142  Kavanagh 


XXIV. 

r  I  ^HE  project  of  the  new  Magazine  being 
•*•  heard  of  no  more,  and  Mr.  Churchill 
being  consequently  deprived  of  his  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  thousand  readers,  he  laid  aside 
the  few  notes  he  had  made  for  his  papers  on 
the  Obscure  Martyrs,  and  turned  his  thoughts 
again  to  the  great  Romance.  A  whole  leisure 
Saturday  afternoon  was  before  him,  —  pure 
gold,  without  alloy.  Ere  beginning  his  task, 
he  stepped  forth  into  his  garden  to  inhale  the 
sunny  air,  and  let  his  thoughts  recede  a  little, 
in  order  to  leap  farther.  When  he  returned, 
glowing  and  radiant  with  poetic  fancies,  he 
found,  to  his  unspeakable  dismay,  an  un 
known  damsel  sitting  in  his  arm-chair.  She 
was  rather  gayly  yet  elegantly  dressed,  and 
wore  a  veil,  which  she  raised  as  Mr.  Churchill 
entered,  fixing  upon  him  the  full,  liquid  orbs  of 
her  large  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Churchill,  I  suppose  ? "  said  she,  ris 
ing,  and  stepping  forward- 


A    Tale  143 

"  The  same,"  replied  the  schoolmaster,  with 
dignified  courtesy. 

"  And  will  you  permit  me,"  she  continued, 
not  without  a  certain  serene  self-possession, 
"  to  introduce  myself,  for  want  of  a  better  per 
son  to  do  it  for  me  ?  My  name  is  Cartwright, 
—  Clarissa  Cartwright." 

This  announcement  did  not  produce  that 
powerful  and  instantaneous  effect  on  Mr. 
Churchill  which  the  speaker  seemed  to  an 
ticipate,  or  at  least  to  hope.  His  eye  did  not 
brighten  with  any  quick  recognition,  nor  did 
he  suddenly  exclaim,  — 

"  What  !  Are  you  Miss  Cartwright,  the 
poetess,  whose  delightful  effusions  I  have  seen 
in  all  the  magazines  ?  " 

On  the  contrary,  he  looked  rather  blank 
and  expectant,  and  only  said,  — 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  ;  pray  sit  down." 

So  that  the  young  lady  herself  was  obliged 
to  communicate  the  literary  intelligence  above 
alluded  to,  which  she  did  very  gracefully,  and 
then  added,  — 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  you, 
Mr.  Churchill,  which  I  hope  you  will  not  deny 
me.  By  the  advice  of  some  friends,  I  have 
collected  my  poems  together,"  —  and  here  she 


144  Kavanagh 

drew  forth  from  a  paper  a  large,  thin  manu 
script,  bound  in  crimson  velvet,  —  "  and  think 
of  publishing  them  in  a  volume.  Now,  would 
you  do  me  the  favor  to  look  them  over,  and 
give  me  your  candid  opinion,  whether  they  are 
worth  publishing  ?  I  should  value  your  advice 
so  highly !  " 

This  simultaneous  appeal  to  his  vanity  and 
his  gallantry  from  a  fair  young  girl,  standing 
on  the  verge  of  that  broad,  dangerous  ocean, 
in  which  so  many  have  perished,  and  looking 
wistfully  over  its  flashing  waters  to  the  shores 
of  the  green  Isle  of  Palms,  —  such  an  appeal, 
from  such  a  person,  it  was  impossible  for  Mr. 
Churchill  to  resist.  He  made,  however,  a 
faint  show  of  resistance,  —  a  feeble  grasping 
after  some  excuse  for  refusal,  —  and  then 
yielded.  He  received  from  Clarissa's  del 
icate,  trembling  hand  the  precious  volume, 
and  from  her  eyes  a  still  more  precious  look 
of  thanks,  and  then  said,  — 

"What  name  do  you  propose  to  give  the 
volume  ?  " 

"  Symphonies  of  the  Soul,  and  other  Poems," 
said  the  young  lady ;  "  and,  if  you  like  them, 
and  it  would  not  be  asking  too  much,  I  should 
be  delighted  to  have  you  write  a  Preface,  to 


A    Tale  145 

introduce  the  work  to  the  public.  The  pub 
lisher  says  it  would  increase  the  sale  very  con 
siderably." 

"  Ah,  the  publisher  !  yes,  but  that  is  not 
very  complimentary  to  yourself,"  suggested 
Mr.  Churchill.  "  I  can  already  see  your  Po 
ems  rebelling  against  the  intrusion  of  my  Pre 
face,  and  rising  like  so  many  nuns  in  a  convent 
to  expel  the  audacious  foot  that  has  dared  to 
invade  their  sacred  precincts." 

But  it  was  all  in  vain,  this  pale  effort  at  pleas 
antry.  Objection  was  useless  ;  and  the  soft 
hearted  schoolmaster  a  second  time  yielded 
gracefully  to  his  fate,  and  promised  the  Pre 
face.  The  young  lady  took  her  leave  with  a 
profusion  of  thanks  and  blushes;  and  the 
dainty  manuscript,  with  its  delicate  chirog- 
raphy  and  crimson  cover,  remained  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Churchill,  who  gazed  at  it  less 
as  a  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices  than  as  a  deed 
or  mortgage  of  so  many  precious  hours  of  his 
own  scanty  inheritance  of  time. 

Afterwards,  when  he  complained  a  little  of 
this  to  his  wife,  —  who,  during  the  interview, 
had  peeped  in  at  the  door,  and,  seeing  how  he 
was  occupied,  had  immediately  withdrawn,  — 
she  said  that  nobody  was  to  blame  but  him- 


146  Kavanagh 

self ;  that  he  should  learn  to  say  "  No  !  "  and 
not  do  just  as  every  romantic  girl  from  the 
Academy  wanted  him  to  do ;  adding,  as  a 
final  aggravation  and  climax  of  reproof,  that 
she  really  believed  he  never  would,  and  never 
meant  to,  begin  his  Romance ! 


A   Tale  147 


XXV. 

NOT  long  afterwards,  Kavanagh  and  Mr. 
Churchill  took  a  stroll  together  across 
the  fields,  and  down  green  lanes,  walking  all 
the  bright,  brief  afternoon.  From  the  sum 
mit  of  the  hill,  beside  the  old  windmill,  they 
saw  the  sun  set ;  and,  opposite,  the  full  moon 
rise,  dewy,  large,  and  red.  As  they  descend 
ed,  they  felt  the  heavy  dampness  of  the  air, 
like  water,  rising  to  meet  them,  —  bathing 
with  coolness  first  their  feet,  then  their  hands, 
then  their  faces,  till  they  were  submerged  in 
that  sea  of  dew.  As  they  skirted  the  wood 
land  on  their  homeward  way,  trampling  the 
golden  leaves  underfoot,  they  heard  voices  at 
a  distance,  singing  ;  and  then  saw  the  lights 
of  the  camp-meeting  gleaming  through  the 
trees,  and,  drawing  nearer,  distinguished  a 
portion  of  the  hymn  :  — 

"  Don't  you  hear  the  Lord  a-coming 
To  the  old  churchyards, 
With  a  band  of  music, 
With  a  band  of  music, 


1 48  Kavanagh 

With  a  band  of  music, 
Sounding  through  the  air  ?  " 

These  words,  at  once  awful  and  ludicrous, 
rose  on  the  still  twilight  air  from  a  hundred 
voices,  thrilling  with  emotion,  and  from  as 
many  beating,  fluttering,  struggling  hearts. 
High  above  them  all  was  heard  one  voice, 
clear  and  musical  as  a  clarion. 

"I  know  that  voice,"  said  Mr.  Churchill;  "it 
is  Elder  Evans's." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Kavanagh,  —  for  only  the 
impression  of  awe  was  upon  him,  —  "  he  never 
acted  in  a  deeper  tragedy  than  this  !  How 
terrible  it  is  !  Let  us  pass  on." 

They  hurried  away,  Kavanagh  trembling  in 
every  fibre.  Silently  they  walked,  the  music 
fading  into  softest  vibrations  behind  them. 

"  How  strange  is  this  fanaticism  !  "  at  length 
said  Mr.  Churchill,  rather  as  a  relief  to  his 
own  thoughts,  than  for  the  purpose  of  reviv 
ing  the  conversation.  "  These  people  really 
believe  that  the  end  of  the  world  is  close  at 
hand." 

"And  to  thousands,"  answered  Kavanagh, 
"this  is  no  fiction,  —  no  illusion  of  an  over 
heated  imagination.  To-day,  to-morrow,  every 
day,  to  thousands,  the  end  of  the  world  is  close 


A    Tale  1 49 

at  hand.  And  why  should  we  fear  it  ?  We 
walk  here  as  it  were  in  the  crypts  of  life  ;  at 
times,  from  the  great  cathedral  above  us, 
we  can  hear  the  organ  and  the  chanting  of 
the  choir  ;  we  see  the  light  stream  through 
the  open  door,  when  some  friend  goes  up  be 
fore  us  ;  and  shall  we  fear  to  mount  the  nar 
row  staircase  of  the  grave,  that  leads  us  out  of 
this  uncertain  twilight  into  the  serene  man 
sions  of  the  life  eternal  ?  " 

They  reached  the  wooden  bridge  over  the 
river,  which  the  moonlight  converted  into  a 
river  of  light.  Their  footsteps  sounded  on  the 
planks ;  they  passed  without  perceiving  a  fe 
male  figure  that  stood  in  the  shadow  below  on 
the  brink  of  the  stream,  watching  wistfully  the 
steady  flow  of  the  current.  It  was  Lucy  !  Her 
bonnet  and  shawl  were  lying  at  her  feet  ;  and 
when  they  had  passed,  she  waded  far  out  into 
the  shallow  stream,  laid  herself  gently  down  in 
its  deeper  waves,  and  floated  slowly  away  into 
the  moonlight,  among  the  golden  leaves  that 
were  faded  and  fallen  like  herself,  —  among 
the  water-lilies,  whose  fragrant  white  blossoms 
had  been  broken  off  and  polluted  long  ago. 
Without  a  struggle,  without  a  sigh,  without  a 
sound,  she  floated  downward,  downward,  and 

7* 


150  Kavanagh 

silently  sank  into  the  silent  river.  Far  off, 
faint,  and  indistinct,  was  heard  the  startling 
hymn,  with  its  wild  and  peculiar  melody,  — 

"  O,  there  will  be  mourning,  mourning,  mourning,  mourn 
ing, — 

O,    there    will    be    mourning,    at    the    judgment-seat    of 
Christ!" 

Kavanagh's  heart  was  full  of  sadness.  He 
left  Mr.  Churchill  at  his  door,  and  proceeded 
homeward.  On  passing  his  church,  he  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  go  in.  He  climbed 
to  his  chamber  in  the  tower,  lighted  by  the 
moon.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  gazing  from 
the  window,  and  watching  a  distant  and  fee 
ble  candle,  whose  rays  scarcely  reached  him 
across  the  brilliant  moon-lighted  air.  Gentler 
thoughts  stole  over  him  ;  an  invisible  presence 
soothed  him  ;  an  invisible  hand  was  laid  upon 
his  head,  and  the  trouble  and  unrest  of  his 
spirit  were  changed  to  peace. 

"  Answer  me,  thou  mysterious  future  ! "  ex 
claimed  he  ;  "  tell  me,  —  shall  these  things  be 
according  to  my  desires  ? " 

And  the  mysterious  future,  interpreted  by 
those  desires,  replied,  — 

"  Soon  thou  shalt  know  all.  It  shall  be  well 
with  thee ! " 


A   Tale  151 


XXVI. 

ON  the  following  morning,  Kavanagh  sat 
as  usual  in  his  study  in  the  tower.  No 
traces  were  left  of  the  heaviness  and  sadness 
of  the  preceding  night.  It  was  a  bright,  warm 
morning  ;  and  the  window,  open  towards  the 
south,  let  in  the  genial  sunshine.  The  odor  of 
decaying  leaves  scented  the  air  ;  far  off  flashed 
the  hazy  river. 

Kavanagh's  heart,  however,  was  not  at  rest. 
At  times  he  rose  from  his  books,  and  paced 
up  and  down  his  little  study ;  then  took  up 
his  hat  as  if  to  go  out ;  then  laid  it  down 
again,  and  again  resumed  his  books.  At 
length  he  arose,  and,  leaning  on  the  window- 
sill,  gazed  for  a  long  time  on  the  scene  before 
him.  Some  thought  was  laboring  in  his  bo 
som,  some  doubt  or  fear,  which  alternated 
with  hope,  but  thwarted  any  fixed  resolve. 

Ah,  how  pleasantly  that  fair  autumnal  land 
scape  smiled  upon  him  !  The  great  golden 
elms  that  marked  the  line  of  the  village  street, 
and  under  whose  shadows  no  beggars  sat ; 


I -5  2  Kavanagh 

the  air  of  comfort  and  plenty,  of  neatness, 
thrift,  and  equality,  visible  everywhere  ;  and 
from  far-off  farms  the  sound  of  flails,  beating 
the  triumphal  march  of  Ceres  through  the 
land;  —  these  were  the  sights  and  sounds  that 
greeted  him  as  he  looked.  Silently  the  yel 
low  leaves  fell  upon  the  graves  in  the  church 
yard  ;  and  the  dew  glistened  in  the  grass, 
which  was  still  long  and  green. 

Presently  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
dove,  pursued  by  a  little  king-bird,  who  con 
stantly  endeavored  to  soar  above  it,  in  order 
to  attack  it  at  greater  advantage.  The  flight 
of  the  birds,  thus  shooting  through  the  air  at 
arrowy  speed,  was  beautiful.  When  they  were 
opposite  the  tower,  the  dove  suddenly  wheeled, 
and  darted  in  at  the  open  window,  while  the 
pursuer  held  on  his  way  with  a  long  sweep, 
and  was  out  of  sight  in  a  moment. 

At  the  first  glance,  Kavanagh  recognized 
the  dove,  which  lay  panting  on  the  floor.  It 
was  the  same  he  had  seen  Cecilia  buy  of  the 
little  man  in  gray.  He  took  it  in  his  hands. 
Its  heart  was  beating  violently.  About  its 
neck  was  a  silken  band ;  beneath  its  wing  a 
billet,  upon  which  was  a  single  word,  "  Cecilia." 
The  bird,  then,  was  on  its  way  to  Cecilia 


A    Tale  153 

Vaughan.  He  hailed  the  omen  as  auspicious, 
and,  immediately  closing  the  window,  seated 
himself  at  his  table,  and  wrote  a  few  hurried 
words,  which,  being  carefully  folded  and  sealed, 
he  fastened  to  the  band,  and  then  hastily,  as  if 
afraid  his  purpose  might  be  changed  by  delay, 
opened  the  window  and  set  the  bird  at  liberty. 
It  sailed  once  or  twice  round  the  tower,  appa 
rently  uncertain  and  bewildered,  or  still  in  fear 
of  its  pursuer.  Then,  instead  of  holding  its 
way  over  the  fields  to  Cecilia  Vaughan,  it 
darted  over  the  roofs  of  the  village,  and 
alighted  at  the  window  of  Alice  Archer. 

Having  written  that  morning  to  Cecilia 
something  urgent  and  confidential,  she  was 
already  waiting  the  answer  ;  and,  not  doubt 
ing  that  the  bird  had  brought  it,  she  hastily 
untied  the  silken  band,  and,  without  looking 
at  the  superscription,  opened  the  first  note 
that  fell  on  the  table.  It  was  very  brief; 
only  a  few  lines,  and  not  a  name  mentioned 
in  it ;  an  impulse,  an  ejaculation  of  love ; 
every  line  quivering  with  electric  fire,  —  every 
word  a  pulsation  of  the  writer's  heart.  It  was 
signed  "  Arthur  Kavanagh." 

Overwhelmed  by  the  suddenness  and  vio 
lence  of  her  emotions,  Alice  sat  for  a  long 
7* 


154  Kavanagh 

time  motionless,  holding  the  open  letter  in  her 
hand.  Then  she  read  it  again,  and  then  re 
lapsed  into  her  dream  of  joy  and  wonder.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two 
emotions  was  the  greater,  —  her  joy  that  her 
prayer  for  love  should  be  answered,  and  so  an 
swered,  —  her  wonder  that  Kavanagh  should 
have  selected  her !  In  the  tumult  of  her  sen 
sations,  and  hardly  conscious  of  what  she  was 
doing,  she  folded  the  note  and  replaced  it  in 
its  envelope.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  her  eye 
fell  on  the  superscription.  It  was  "  Cecilia 
Vaughan."  Alice  fainted. 

On  recovering  her  senses,  her  first  act  was 
one  of  heroism.  She  sealed  the  note,  attached 
it  to  the  neck  of  the  pigeon,  and  sent  the  mes 
senger  rejoicing  on  his  journey.  Then  her 
feelings  had  way,  and  she  wept  long  and  bit 
terly.  Then,  with  a  desperate  calmness,  she 
reproved  her  own  weakness  and  selfishness, 
and  felt  that  she  ought  to  rejoice  in  the  hap 
piness  of  her  friend,  and  sacrifice  her  affection, 
even  her  life,  to  her.  Her  heart  exculpated 
Kavanagh  from  all  blame.  He  had  not  de 
luded  her ;  she  had  deluded  herself.  She 
alono  was  in  fault ;  and  in  deep  humiliation, 
with  wounded  pride  and  wounded  love,  and 


A   Tale  155 

utter  self-abasement,  she  bowed  her  head  and 
prayed  for  consolation  and  fortitude. 

One  consolation  she  already  had.  The  se 
cret  was  her  own.  She  had  not  revealed  it 
even  to  Cecilia.  Kavanagh  did  not  suspect 
it.  Public  curiosity,  public  pity,  she  would 
not  have  to  undergo. 

She  was  resigned.  She  made  the  heroic 
sacrifice  of  self,  leaving  her  sorrow  to  the 
great  physician,  Time,  —  the  nurse  of  care, 
the  healer  of  all  smarts,  the  soother  and  con 
soler  of  all  sorrows.  And,  thenceforward,  she 
became  unto  Kavanagh  what  the  moon  is  to 
the  sun,  forever  following,  forever  separated, 
forever  sad  ! 

As  a  traveller,  about  to  start  upon  his  jour 
ney,  resolved  and  yet  irresolute,  watches  the 
clouds,  and  notes  the  struggle  between  the 
sunshine  and  the  showers,  and  says,  "  It  will 
be  fair ;  I  will  go,"  —  and  again  says,  "  Ah, 
no,  not  yet ;  the  rain  is  not  yet  over,"  —  so  at 
this  same  hour  sat  Cecilia  Vaughan,  resolved 
and  yet  irresolute,  longing  to  depart  upon  the 
fair  journey  before  her,  and  yet  lingering  on 
the  paternal  threshold,  as  if  she  wished  both  to 
stay  and  to  go,  seeing  the  sky  was  not  without 
its  clouds,  nor  the  road  without  its  dangers. 


156  Kavanagh 

It  was  a  beautiful  picture,  as  she  sat  there 
with  sweet  perplexity  in  her  face,  and  above  it 
an  immortal  radiance  streaming  from  her  brow. 
She  was  like  Guercino's  Sibyl,  with  the  scroll 
of  fate  and  the  uplifted  pen  ;  and  the  scroll  she 
held  contained  but  three  words,  —  three  words 
that  controlled  the  destiny  of  a  man,  and,  by 
their  soft  impulsion,  directed  forevermore  the 
current  of  his  thoughts.  They  were,  — 

"  Come  to  me  !  " 

The  magic  syllables  brought  Kavanagh  to 
her  side.  The  full  soul  is  silent.  Only  the 
rising  and  falling  tides  rush  murmuring 
through  their  channels.  So  sat  the  lovers, 
hand  in  hand  ;  but  for  a  long  time  neither 
spake,  —  neither  had  need  of  speech  ! 


A    Tale  157 


XXVII. 

IN  the  afternoon,  Cecilia  went  to  communi 
cate  the  news  to  Alice  with  her  own  lips, 
thinking  it  too  important  to  be  intrusted  to  the 
wings  of  the  carrier-pigeon.  As  she  entered 
the  door,  the  cheerful  doctor  was  coming  out ; 
but  this  was  no  unusual  apparition,  and  ex 
cited  no  alarm.  Mrs.  Archer,  too,  according 
to  custom,  was  sitting  in  the  little  parlor  with 
her  decrepit  old  neighbor,  who  seemed  almost 
to  have  taken  up  her  abode  under  that  roof, 
so  many  hours  of  every  day  did  she  pass  there. 

With  a  light,  elastic  step,  Cecilia  bounded 
up  to  Alice's  room.  She  found  her  reclining 
in  her  large  chair,  flushed  and  excited.  Sit 
ting  down  by  her  side,  and  taking  both  her 
hands,  she  said,  with  great  emotion  in  the 
tones  of  her  voice, — 

"  Dearest  Alice,  I  have  brought  you  some 
news  that  I  am  sure  will  make  you  well.  For 
my  sake,  you  will  be  no  longer  ill  when  you 
hear  it.  I  am  engaged  to  Mr.  Kavanagh  ! " 

Alice  feigned  no  surprise  at  this  announce- 


158  Kavanagh 

ment.  She  returned  the  warm  pressure  of 
Cecilia's  hand,  and,  looking  affectionately  in 
her  face,  said  very  calmly,  — 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so.  I  knew  that  he 
loved  you,  and  that  you  would  love  him." 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ? "  said  Cecilia,  her 
eyes  beaming  with  dewy  light ;  "  could  any 
one  help  loving  him  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Alice,  throwing  her  arms 
around  Cecilia's  neck,  and  laying  her  head 
upon  her  shoulder ;  "  at  least,  no  one  whom 
he  loved.  But  when  did  this  happen  ?  Tell 
me  all  about  it,  dearest ! " 

Cecilia  was  surprised,  and  perhaps  a  little 
hurt,  at  the  quiet,  almost  impassive  manner 
in  which  her  friend  received  this  great  intel 
ligence.  She  had  expected  exclamations  of 
wonder  and  delight,  and  such  a  glow  of  ex 
citement  as  that  with  which  she  was  sure 
she  should  have  hailed  the  announcement  of 
Alice's  engagement.  But  this  momentary  an 
noyance  was  soon  swept  away  by  the  tide  of 
her  own  joyous  sensations,  as  she  proceeded 
to  recall  to  the  recollection  of  her  friend  the 
thousand  little  circumstances  that  had  marked 
the  progress  of  her  love  and  Kavanagh's ; 
things  which  she  must  have  noticed,  which 


A   Tale  159 

she  could  not  have  forgotten  ;  with  questions 
interspersed  at  intervals,  such  as,  "Do  you 
recollect  when  ? "  and  "  I  am  sure  you  have 
not  forgotten,  have  you  ? "  and  dreamy  little 
pauses  of  silence,  and  intercalated  sighs.  She 
related  to  her,  also,  the  perilous  adventure  of 
the  carrier-pigeon ;  how  it  had  been  pursued 
by  the  cruel  kingfisher ;  how  it  had  taken  ref 
uge  in  Kavanagh's  tower,  and  had  been  the 
bearer  of  his  letter,  as  well  as  her  own.  When 
she  had  finished,  she  felt  her  bosom  wet  with 
the  tears  of  Alice,  who  was  suffering  martyr 
dom  on  that  soft  breast,  so  full  of  happiness. 
Tears  of  bitterness,  —  tears  of  blood  !  And 
Cecilia,  in  the  exultant  temper  of  her  soul  at 
the  moment,  thought  them  tears  of  joy,  and 
pressed  Alice  closer  to  her  heart,  and  kissed 
and  caressed  her. 

"  Ah,  how  very  happy  you  are,  Cecilia ! " 
at  length  sighed  the  poor  sufferer,  in  that 
slightly  querulous  tone  to  which  Cecilia  was 
not  unaccustomed  ;  "  how  very  happy  you  are, 
and  how  very  wretched  am  I !  You  have  all 
the  joy  of  life,  I  all  its  loneliness.  How  little 
you  will  think  of  me  now !  How  little  you 
will  need  me  !  I  shall  be  nothing  to  you,  — 
you  will  forget  me." 


1 60  Kavanagh 

"Never,  dearest!"  exclaimed  Cecilia,  with 
much  warmth  and  sincerity.  "  I  shall  love 
you  only  the  more.  We  shall  both  love  you. 
You  will  now  have  two  friends  instead  of  one." 

"  Yes  ;  but  both  will  not  be  equal  to  the  one 
I  lose.  No,  Cecilia ;  let  us  not  make  to  our 
selves  any  illusions.  I  do  not.  You  cannot 
now  be  with  me  so  much  and  so  often  as  you 
have  been.  Even  if  you  were,  your  thoughts 
would  be  elsewhere.  Ah,  I  have  lost  my 
friend,  when  most  I  needed  her ! " 

Cecilia  protested  ardently  and  earnestly,  and 
dilated  with  eagerness  on  her  little  plan  of  life, 
in  which  their  romantic  friendship  was  to  gain 
only  new  strength  and  beauty  from  the  more 
romantic  love.  She  was  interrupted  by  a 
knock  at  the  street  door ;  on  hearing  which, 
she  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  — 

"  It  is  Arthur.     He  was  to  call  for  me." 

Ah,  what  glimpses  of  home,  and  fireside, 
and  a  whole  life  of  happiness  for  Cecilia,  were 
revealed  by  that  one  word  of  love  and  inti 
macy,  "  Arthur "  !  and  for  Alice,  what  a  sen 
tence  of  doom  !  what  sorrow  without  a  name  ! 
what  an  endless  struggle  of  love  and  friend 
ship,  of  duty  and  inclination !  A  little  quiver 
of  the  eyelids  and  the  hands,  a  hasty  motion 


A    Tale  161 

to  raise  her  head  from  Cecilia's  shoulder,  — . 
these  were  the  only  outward  signs  of  emotion. 
But  a  terrible  pang  went  to'  her  heart  ;  her 
blood  rushed  eddying  to  her  brain  ;  and  when 
Cecilia  had  taken  leave  of  her  with  the  tri 
umphant  look  of  love  beaming  upon  her  brow, 
and  an  elevation  in  her  whole  attitude  and 
bearing,  as  if  borne  up  by  attendant  angels, 
she  sank  back  into  her  chair,  exhausted,  faint 
ing,  fearing,  longing,  hoping  to  die. 

And  below  sat  the  two  old  women,  talking 
of  moths,  and  cheap  furniture,  and  what  was 
the  best  remedy  for  rheumatism  ;  and  from 
the  door  went  forth  two  happy  hearts,  beating 
side  by  side  with  the  pulse  of  youth  and  hope 
and  joy,  and  within  them  and  around  them 
was  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  ! 

Only  those  who  have  lived  in  a  small  town 
can  really  know  how  great  an  event  therein  is 
a  new  engagement.  From  tongue  to  tongue 
passes  the  swift  countersign ;  from  eye  to  eye 
flashes  the  illumination  of  joy,  or  the  bale-fire 
of  alarm  ;  the  streets  and  houses  ring  with  it, 
as  with  the  penetrating^  all-pervading  sound 
of  the  village  bell ;  the  whole  community  feels 
a  thrill  ,of  sympathy,  and  seems  to  congratu 
late  itself  that  all  the  great  events  are  by  no 

K 


1 6  2  Kavanagk 

means  confined  to  the  great  towns.  As  Ce 
cilia  and  Kavanagh  passed  arm  in  arm  through 
the  village,  many  curious  eyes  watched  them 
from  the  windows,  many  hearts  grown  cold  or 
careless  rekindled  their  household  fires  of  love 
from  the  golden  altar  of  God,  borne  through 
the  streets  by  those  pure  and  holy  hands  ! 

The  intelligence  of  the  engagement,  how 
ever,  was  received  very  differently  by  different 
persons.  Mrs.  Wilmerdings  wondered,  for  her 
part,  why  anybody  wanted  to  get  married  at 
all.  The  little  taxidermist  said  he  knew  it 
would  be  so  from  the  very  first  day  they  had 
met  at  his  aviary.  Miss  Hawkins  lost  sudden 
ly  much  of  her  piety  and  all  her  patience,  and 
laughed  rather  hysterically.  Mr.  Hawkins  said 
it  was  impossible,  but  went  in  secret  to  consult 
a  friend,  an  old  bachelor,  on  the  best  remedy 
for  love  ;  and  the  old  bachelor,  as  one  well 
versed  in  such  affairs,  gravely  advised  him  to 
think  of  the  lady  as  a  beautiful  statue  ! 

Once  more  the  indefatigable  school-girl  took 
up  her  pen,  and  wrote  to  her  foreign  corre 
spondent  a  letter  that  might  rival  the  famous 
epistle  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  to  her  daughter, 
announcing  the  engagement  of  Mademoiselle 
Montpensier.  Through  the  whole  of  the  first 


A    Tale  163 

page,  she  told  her  to  guess  who  the  lady  was  ; 
through  the  whole  of  the  second,  who  the  gen 
tleman  was  ;  the  third  was  devoted  to  what 
was  said  about  it  in  the  village  ;  and  on  the 
fourth  there  were  two  postscripts,  one  at  the 
top  and  the  other  at  the  bottom,  the  first  stat 
ing  that  they  were  to  be  married  in  the  Spring, 
and  to  go  to  Italy  immediately  afterwards,  and 
the  last,  that  Alice  Archer  was  dangerously  ill 
with  a  fever. 

As  for  the  Churchills,  they  could  find  no 
words  powerful  enough  to  express  their  de 
light,  but  gave  vent  to  it  in  a  banquet  on 
Thanksgiving-day,  in  which  the  wife  had  all 
the  trouble  and  the  husband  all  the  pleasure. 
In  order  that  the  entertainment  might  be 
worthy  of  the  occasion,  Mr.  Churchill  wrote 
to  the  city  for  the  best  cookery-book  ;  and  the 
bookseller,  executing  the  order  in  all  its  ampli 
tude,  sent  him  the  Practical  Guide  to  the  Cu 
linary  Art  in  all  its  Branches,  by  Frascatelli, 
pupil  of  the  celebrated  Careme,  and  Chief 
Cook  to  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  —  a  pon 
derous  volume,  illustrated  with  numerous  en 
gravings,  and  furnished  with  bills  of  fare  for 
every  month  in  the  year,  and  any  number  of 
persons.  This  great  work  was  duly  studied, 


1 64  Kavanagh 

evening  after  evening ;  and  Mr.  Churchill 
confessed  to  his  wife,  that,  although  at  first 
startled  by  the  size  of  the  book,  he  had  really 
enjoyed  it  very  highly,  and  had  been  much 
pleased  to  be  present  in  imagination  at  so 
many  grand  entertainments,  and  to  sit  oppo 
site  the  Queen  without  having  to  change  his 
dress  or  the  general  style  of  his  conversation. 

The  dinner  hour,  as  well  as  the  dinner  itself, 
was  duly  debated.  Mr.  Churchill  was  in  favor 
of  the  usual  hour  of  one  ;  but  his  wife  thought 
it  should  be  an  hour  later.  Whereupon  he  re 
marked,  — 

"  King  Henry  the  Eighth  dined  at  ten 
o'clock  and  supped  at  four.  His  queen's  maids 
of  honor  had  a  gallon  of  ale  and  a  chine  of 
beef  for  their  breakfast." 

To  which  his  wife  answered,  — 

"  I  hope  we  shall  have  something  a  little 
more  refined  than  that." 

The  day  on  which  the  banquet  should  take 
place  was  next  discussed,  and  both  agreed  that 
no  day  could  be  so  appropriate  as  Thanksgiv 
ing-day  ;  for,  as  Mrs.  Churchill  very  truly  re 
marked,  it  was  really  a  day  of  thanksgiving  to 
Kavanagh.  She  then  said, — 

"  How  very  solemnly  he  read  the  Governor's 


A    Tale  165 

Proclamation  yesterday !  particularly  the  words 
*  God  save  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachu 
setts  ! '  And  what  a  Proclamation  it  was  ! 
When  he  spread  it  out  on  the  pulpit,  it  looked 
like  a  table-cloth  !  " 

Mr.  Churchill  then  asked, 

"  What  day  of  the  week  is  the  first  of  De 
cember  ?  Let  me  see,  — 

'At  Dover  dwells  George  Brown,  Esquire, 
Good  Christopher  Finch  and  Daniel  Friar  ! ' 

Thursday." 

"  I  could  have  told  you  that,"  said  his  wife, 
"  by  a  shorter  process  than  your  old  rhyme. 
Thanksgiving-day  always  comes  on  Thurs 
day." 

These  preliminaries  being  duly  settled,  the 
dinner  was  given. 

There  being  only  six  guests,  and  the  dinner 
being  modelled  upon  one  for  twenty-four  per 
sons,  Russian  style  in  November,  it  was  very 
abundant.  It  began  with  a  Colbert  soup,  and 
ended  with  a  Nesselrode  pudding ;  but  as  no 
allusion  was  made  in  the  course  of  the  repast 
to  the  French  names  of  the  dishes,  and  the 
mutton,  and  turnips,  and  pancakes  were  all 
called  by  their  English  patronymics,  the  din 
ner  appeared  less  magnificent  in  reality  than 


1 66  Kavanagh 

in  the  bill  of  fare,  and  the  guests  did  not  fully 
appreciate  how  superb  a  banquet  they  were 
enjoying.  The  hilarity  of  the  occasion  was 
not  marred  by  any  untoward  accident ;  though 
once  or  twice  Mr.  Churchill  was  much  annoyed, 
and  the  company  much  amused,  by  Master  Al 
fred,  who  was  allowed  to  be  present  at  the 
festivities,  and  audibly  proclaimed  what  was 
coming,  long  before  it  made  its  appearance. 
When  the  dinner  was  over,  several  of  the 
guests  remembered  brilliant  and  appropriate 
things  they  might  have  said,  and  wondered 
they  were  so  dull  as  not  to  think  of  them  in 
season  ;  and  when  they  were  all  gone,  Mr. 
Churchill  remarked  to  his  wife  that  he  had 
enjoyed  himself  very  much,  and  that  he  should 
like  to  ask  his  friends  to  just  such  a  dinner 
every  week ! 


A   Tale  167 

I 
XXVIII. 

first  snow  came.  How  beautiful  it 
J-  was,  falling  so  silently,  all  day  long,  all 
night  long,  on  the  mountains,  on  the  meadows, 
on  the  roofs  of  the  living,  on  the  graves  of  the 
dead  !  All  white  save  the  river,  that  marked 
its  course  by  a  winding  black  line  across  the 
landscape  ;  and  the  leafless  trees,  that  against 
the  leaden  sky  now  revealed  more  fully  the 
wonderful  beauty  and  intricacy  of  their  branch 
es  ! 

What  silence,  too,  came  with  the  snow,  and 
what  seclusion !  Every  sound  was  muffled, 
every  noise  changed  to  something  soft  and 
musical.  No  more  trampling  hoofs,  —  no  more 
rattling  wheels !  Only  the  chiming  sleigh- 
bells,  beating  as  swift  and  merrily  as  the 
hearts  of  children. 

All  day  long,  all  night  long,  the  snow  fell 
on  the  village  and  on  the  churchyard  ;  on  the 
happy  home  of  Cecilia  Vaughan,  on  the  lonely 
grave  of  Alice  Archer !  Yes  ;  for  before  the 
winter  came  she  had  gone  to  that  land  where 


1 68  Kavanagh 

winter  never  comes.  Her  long  domestic  trage 
dy  was  ended.  She  was  dead ;  and  with  her 
had  died  her  secret  sorrow  and  her  secret  love. 
Kavanagh  never  knew  what  wealth  of  affection 
for  him  faded  from  the  world  when  she  depart 
ed  ;  Cecilia  never  knew  what  fidelity  of  friend 
ship,  what  delicate  regard,  what  gentle  magna 
nimity,  what  angelic  patience,  had  gone  with 
her  into  the  grave  ;  Mr.  Churchill  never  knew, 
that,  while  he  was  exploring  the  Past  for  rec 
ords  of  obscure  and  unknown  martyrs,  in  his 
own  village,  near  his  own  door,  before  his  own 
eyes,  one  of  that  silent  sisterhood  had  passed 
away  into  oblivion,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

How  often,  ah,  how  often,  between  the  de 
sire  of  the  heart  and  its  fulfilment,  lies  only 
the  briefest  space  of  time  and  distance,  and 
yet  the  desire  remains  forever  unfulfilled  !  It 
is  so  near  that  we  can  touch  it  with  the  hand, 
and  yet  so  far  away  that  the  eye  cannot  per 
ceive  it.  What  Mr.  Churchill  most  desired 
was  before  him.  The  Romance  he  was  long 
ing  to  find  and  record  had  really  occurred  in 
his  neighborhood,  among  his  own  friends.  It 
had  been  set  like  a  picture  into  the  frame-work 
of  his  life,  enclosed  within  his  own  experience. 
But  he  could  not  see  it  as  an  object  apart  from 


A    Tale  169 

himself ;  and  as  he  was  gazing  at  what  was  re 
mote  and  strange  and  indistinct,  the  nearer  in 
cidents  of  aspiration,  love,  and  death,  escaped 
him.  They  were  too  near  to  be  clothed  by  the 
imagination  with  the  golden  vapors  of  romance ; 
for  the  familiar  seems  trivial,  and  only  the  dis 
tant  and  unknown  completely  fill  and  satisfy 
the  mind. 

The  winter  did  not  pass  without  its  peculiar 
delights  and  recreations.  The  singing  of  the 
great  wood  fires  ;  the  blowing  of  the  wind 
over  the  chimney-tops,  as  if  they  were  organ 
pipes  ;  the  splendor  of  the  spotless  snow  ;  the 
purple  wall  built  round  the  horizon  at  sunset ; 
the  sea-suggesting  pines,  with  the  moan  of  the 
billows  in  their  branches,  on  which  the  snows 
were  furled  like  sails  ;  the  northern  lights  ; 
the  stars  of  steel ;  the  transcendent  moon 
light,  and  the  lovely  shadows  of  the  leafless 
trees  upon  the  snow  ;  —  these  things  did  not 
pass  unnoticed  nor  unremembered.  Every 
one  of  them  made  its  record  upon  the  heart 
of  Mr.  Churchill. 

His  twilight  walks,  his  long  Saturday  after 
noon  rambles,  had  again  become  solitary ;  for 
Kavanagh  was  lost  to  him  for  such  purposes, 
and  his  wife  was  one  of  those  women  who 
8 


1 70  Kavanagh 

never  walk.  Sometimes  he  went  down  to  the 
banks  of  the  frozen  river,  and  saw  the  farmers 
crossing  it  with  their  heavy-laden  sleds,  and 
the  Fairmeadow  schooner  imbedded  in  the 
ice;  and  thought  of  Lapland  sledges,  and 
the  song  of  Kulnasatz,  and  the  dismantled, 
ice-locked  vessels  of  the  explorers  in  the  Arc 
tic  Ocean.  Sometimes  he  went  to  the  neigh 
boring  lake,  and  saw  the  skaters  wheeling 
round  their  fire,  and  speeding  away  before  the 
wind  ;  and  in  his  imagination  arose  images  of 
the  Norwegian  Skate-Runners,  bearing  the 
tidings  of  King  Charles's  death  from  Fred- 
erickshall  to  Drontheim,  and  of  the  retreat 
ing  Swedish  army,  frozen  to  death  in  its 
fireless  tents  among  the  mountains.  And 
then  he  would  watch  the  cutting  of  the  ice 
with  ploughs,  and  the  horses  dragging  the 
huge  blocks  to  the  storehouses,  and  contrast 
them  with  the  Grecian  mules,  bearing  the 
snows  of  Mount  Parnassus  to  the  markets  of 
Athens,  in  panniers,  protected  from  the  sun 
by  boughs  of  oleander  and  rhododendron. 

The  rest  of  his  leisure  hours  were  employed 
in  anything  and  everything  save  in  writing  his 
Romance.  A  great  deal  of  time  was  daily  con 
sumed  in  reading  the  newspapers,  because  it 


A    Tale  171 

was  necessary,  he  said,  to  keep  up  with  the 
times ;  and  a  great  deal  more  in  writing  a 
Lyceum  Lecture,  on  "  What  Lady  Macbeth 
might  have  been,  had  her  energies  been  prop 
erly  directed."  He  also  made  some  little  pro 
gress  in  a  poetical  arithmetic,  founded  on 
Bhascara's,  but  relinquished  it,  because  the 
school  committee  thought  it  was  not  practical 
enough,  and  more  than  hinted  that  he  had 
better  adhere  to  the  old  system.  And  still 
the  vision  of  the  great  Romance  moved  before 
his  mind,  august  and  glorious,  a  beautiful 
mirage  of  the  desert. 


i?  2  Kavanagh 


XXIX. 

r  I  ^HE  wedding  did  not  take  place  till 
•*•  spring.  And  then  Kavanagh  and  his 
Cecilia  departed  on  their  journey  to  Italy  and 
the  East,  —  a  sacred  mission,  a  visit  like  the 
Apostle's  to  the  Seven  Churches,  nay,  to  all 
the  Churches  of  Christendom  ;  he  hoping  by 
some  means  to  sow  in  many  devout  hearts 
the  desire  and  prophecy  that  filled  his  own,  — 
the  union  of  all  sects  into  one  universal 
Church  of  Christ.  They  intended  to  be  ab 
sent  one  year  only  ;  they  were  gone  three. 
It  seemed  to  their  friends  that  they  never 
would  return.  But  at  length  they  came, — 
the  long  absent,  the  long  looked  for,  the  long 
desired,  —  bearing  with  them  that  delicious 
perfume  of  travel,  that  genial,  sunny  atmos 
phere,  and  soft,  Ausonian  air,  which  returning 
travellers  always  bring  about  them. 

It  was  night  when  they  reached  the  village, 
and  they  could  not  see  what  changes  had 
taken  place  in  it  during  their  absence.  How 
it  had  dilated  and  magnified  itself,  —  how  it 


A    Tale  173 

had  puffed  itself  up,  and  bedizened  itself  with 
flaunting,  ostentatious  signs,  —  how  it  stood, 
rotund  and  rubicund  with  brick,  like  a  portly 
man,  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  both  hands 
in  his  pockets,  warm,  expansive,  apoplectic, 
and  entertaining  a  very  favorable  opinion  of 
himself,  —  all  this  they  did  not  see,  for  the 
darkness ;  but  Kavanagh  beheld  it  all,  and 
more,  when  he  went  forth  on  the  following 
morning. 

How  Cecilia's  heart  beat  as  they  drove  up 
the  avenue  to  the  old  house  !  The  piny  odors 
in  the  night  air,  the  solitary  light  at  her  fa 
ther's  window,  the  familiar  bark  of  the  dog 
Major  at  the  sound  of  the  wheels,  awakened 
feelings  at  once  new  and  old.  A  sweet  per 
plexity  of  thought,  a  strange  familiarity,  a  no 
less  pleasing  strangeness  !  The  lifting  of  the 
heavy  brass  latch,  and  the  jarring  of  the  heavy 
brass  knocker  as  the  door  closed,  were  echoes 
from  her  childhood.  Mr.  Vaughan  they  found, 
as  usual,  among  his  papers  in  the  study ;  —  the 
same  bland,  white-haired  man,  hardly  a  day 
older  than  when  they  left  him  there.  To  Ce 
cilia  the  whole  long  absence  in  Italy  became  a 
dream,  and  vanished  away.  Even  Kavanagh 
was  for  the  moment  forgotten.  She  was  a 


1 74  Kavanagh 

daughter,  not  a  wife  ;  —  she  had  not  been 
married,  she  had  not  been  in  Italy  ! 

In  the  morning,  Kavanagh  sallied  forth  to 
find  the  Fairmeadow  of  his  memory,  but  found 
it  not.  The  railroad  had  completely  trans 
formed  it.  The  simple  village  had  become  a 
very  precocious  town.  New  .shops,  with  new 
names  over  the  doors ;  new  streets,  with  new 
forms  and  faces  in  them  ;  the  whole  town 
seemed  to  have  been  taken  and  occupied  by  a 
besieging  army  of  strangers.  Nothing  was 
permanent  but  the  workhouse,  standing  alone 
in  the  pasture  by  the  river  ;  and,  at  the  end  of 
the  street,  the  school-house,  that  other  work 
house,  where  in  childhood  we  twist  and  un 
twist  the  cordage  of  the  brain,  that,  later 
in  life,  we  may  not  be  obliged  to  pull  to 
pieces  the  more  material  cordage  of  old 
ships. 

Kavanagh  soon  turned  in  despair  from  the 
main  street  into  a  little  green  lane,  where 
there  were  few  houses,  and  where  the  bar 
berry  still  nodded  over  the  old  stone  wall ;  — 
a  place  he  had  much  loved  in  the  olden  time 
for  its  silence  and  seclusion.  He  seemed  to 
have  entered  his  ancient  realm  of  dreams 
again,  and  was  walking  with  his  hat  drawn  a 


A    Tale  175 

little  over  his  eyes.  He  had  not  proceeded 
far,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  woman's  voice, 
quite  sharp  and  loud,  crying  from  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  lane.  Looking  up,  he  beheld 
a  small  cottage,  against  the  wall  of  which 
rested  a  ladder,  and  on  this  ladder  stood  the 
woman  from  whom  the  voice  came.  Her  face 
was  nearly  concealed  by  a  spacious  gingham 
sun-bonnet,  and  in  her  right  hand  she  held 
extended  a  large  brush,  with  which  she  was 
painting  the  front  of  her  cottage,  when  inter 
rupted  by  the  approach  of  Kavanagh,  who, 
thinking  she  was  calling  to  him,  but  not 
understanding  what  she  said,  made  haste  to 
cross  over  to  her  assistance.  At  this  move 
ment  her  tone  became  louder  and  more  per 
emptory  ;  and  he  could  now  understand  that 
her  cry  was  rather  a  warning  than  an  invita 
tion. 

"  Go  away  !  "  she  said,  flourishing  her  brush. 
"  Go  away  !  What  are  you  coming  down  here 
for,  when  I  am  on  the  ladder,  painting  my 
house  ?  If  you  don't  go  right  about  your  busi 
ness,  I  will  come  down  and " 

"Why,  Miss  Manchester  !"  exclaimed  Kav 
anagh  ;  "how  could  I  know  that  you  would  be 
going  up  the  ladder  just  as  I  came  down  the 
lane?" 


1 76  Kavanagh 

"Well,  I  declare!  If  it  is  not  Mr.  Kav 
anagh  !  " 

And  she  scrambled  down  the  ladder  back 
wards  with  as  much  grace  as  the  circumstances 
permitted.  She,  too,  like  the  rest  of  his  friends 
in  the  village,  showed  symptoms  of  growing 
older.  The  passing  years  had  drunk  a  por 
tion  of  the  light  from  her  eyes,  and  left  their 
traces  on  her  cheeks,  as  birds  that  drink  at 
lakes  leave  their  footprints  on  the  margin. 
But  the  pleasant  smile  remained,  and  remind 
ed  him  of  the  bygone  days,  when  she  used  to 
open  for  him  the  door  of  the  gloomy  house 
under  the  poplars. 

Many  things  had  she  to  ask,  and  many  to 
tell ;  and  for  full  half  an  hour  Kavanagh  stood 
leaning  over  the  paling,  while  she  remained 
among  the  hollyhocks,  as  stately  and  red  as 
the  plants  themselves.  At  parting,  she  gave 
him  one  of  the  flowers  for  his  wife  ;  and,  when 
he  was  fairly  out  of  sight,  again  climbed  the 
perilous  ladder,  and  resumed  her  fresco  paint 
ing. 

Through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  these  later 
years,  Sally  had  remained  true  to  her  princi 
ples  and  resolution.  At  Mrs.  Archer's  death, 
which  occurred  soon  after  Kavanagh's  wed- 


A    Tale  177 

ding,  she  had  retired  to  this  little  cottage, 
bought  and  paid  for  by  her  own  savings. 
Though  often  urged  by  Mr.  Vaughan's  man, 
Silas,  who  breathed  his  soul  out  upon  the  air 
of  summer  evenings  through  a  keyed  bugle, 
she  resolutely  refused  to  marry.  In  vain  did 
he  send  her  letters  written  with  his  own  blood, 
—  going  barefooted  into  the  brook  to  be  bit 
ten  by  leeches,  and  then  using  his  feet  as  ink 
stands  :  she  refused  again  and  again.  Was  it 
that  in  some  blue  chamber,  or  some  little 
warm  back  parlor,  of  her  heart,  the  portrait  of 
the  inconstant  dentist  was  still  hanging  ? 
Alas,  no  !  But  as  to  some  hearts  it  is  given 
in  youth  to  blossom  with  the  fragrant  blooms 
of  young  desire,  so  others  are  doomed  by  a 
mysterious  destiny  to  be  checked  in  Spring  by 
chill  winds,  blowing  over  the  bleak  common 
of  the  world.  So  had  it  been  with  her  desires 
and  thoughts  of  love.  Fear  now  predomi 
nated  over  hope  ;  and  to  die  unmarried  had 
become  to  her  a  fatality  which  she  dared  not 
resist. 

In  the  course  of  his  long  conversation  with 
Miss  Manchester,  Kavanagh  learned  many 
things  about  the  inhabitants  of  the  town. 
Mrs.  Wilmerdings  was  still  carrying  on  her 


1 78  Kavanagh 

labors  in  the  "  Dunstable  and  eleven -braid, 
open-work  and  colored  straws."  Her  hus 
band  had  taken  to  the  tavern,  and  often  came 
home  very  late,  "with  a  brick  in  his  hat,"  as 
Sally  expressed  it.  Their  son  and  heir  was 
far  away  in  the  Pacific,  on  board  a  whale-ship. 
Miss  Amelia  Hawkins  remained  unmarried, 
though  possessing  a  talent  for  matrimony 
which  amounted  almost  to  genius.  Her  broth 
er,  the  poet,  was  no  more.  Finding  it  impos 
sible  to  follow  the  old  bachelor's  advice,  and 
look  upon  Miss  Vaughan  as  a  beautiful  statue, 
he  made  one  or  two  attempts,  but  in  vain,  to 
throw  himself  away  on  unworthy  objects,  and 
then  died.  At  this  event,  two  elderly  maidens 
went  into  mourning  simultaneously,  each  think 
ing  herself  engaged  to  him  ;  and  suddenly  went 
out  of  it  again,  mutually  indignant  with  each 
other,  and  mortified  with  themselves.  The  lit 
tle  taxidermist  was  still  hopping  about  in  his 
aviary,  looking  more  than  ever  like  his  gray 
African  parrot.  Mrs.  Archer's  house  was  un 
inhabited. 


A   Tale  179 


XXX. 

TV^AVANAGH  continued  his  walk  in  the 
J~  V.  direction  of  Mr.  Churchill's  residence. 
This,  at  least,  was  unchanged,  —  quite  un 
changed.  The  same  white  front;  the  same 
brass  knocker ;  the  same  old  wooden  gate, 
with  its  chain  and  ball ;  the  same  damask 
roses  under  the  windows ;  the  same  sunshine 
without  and  within.  The  outer  door  and  study 
door  were  both  open,  as  usual  in  the  warm 
weather ;  and  at  the  table  sat  Mr.  Churchill, 
writing.  Over  each  ear  was  a  black  and  inky 
stump  of  a  pen,  which,  like  the  two  ravens 
perched  on  Odin's  shoulders,  seemed  to  whis 
per  to  him  all  that  passed  in  heaven  and  on 
earth.  On  this  occasion,  their  revelations 
were  of  the  earth.  He  was  correcting  school 
exercises. 

The  joyful  welcome  of  Mr.  Churchill,  as 
Kavanagh  entered,  and  the  cheerful  sound  of 
their  voices,  soon  brought  Mrs.  Churchill  to 
the  study,  —  her  eyes  bluer  than  ever,  her 
.cheeks  fairer,  her  form  more  round  and  full. 


1 80  Kavanagh 

The  children  came  in  also,  —  Alfred  grown  to 
boy's  estate  and  exalted  into  a  jacket ;  and  the 
baby  that  was,  less  than  two  years  behind  him, 
and  catching  all  his  falling  mantles,  and  all  his 
tricks  and  maladies. 

Kavanagh  found  Mr.  Churchill  precisely 
where  he  left  him.  He  had  not  advanced 
one  step,  —  not  one.  The  same  dreams,  the 
same  longings,  the  same  aspirations,  the  same 
indecision.  A  thousand  things  had  been 
planned,  and  none  completed.  His  imagin 
ation  seemed  still  to  exhaust  itself  in  running, 
before  it  tried  to  leap  the  ditch.  While  he 
mused,  the  fire  burned  in  other  brains.  Other 
hands  wrote  the  books  he  dreamed  about.  He 
freely  used  his  good  ideas  in  conversation,  and 
in  letters  ;  and  they  were  straightway  wrought 
into  the  texture  of  other  men's  books,  and  so 
lost  to  him  forever.  His  work  on  Obscure 
Martyrs  was  anticipated  by  Mr.  Hathaway, 
who,  catching  the  idea  from  him,  wrote  and 
published  a  series  of  papers  on  Unknown 
Saints,  before  Mr.  Churchill  had  fairly  ar 
ranged  his  materials.  Before  he  had  written 

o 

a  chapter  of  his  great  Romance,  another 
friend  and  novelist  had  published  one  on 
the  same  subject. 


A    Tale  181 

Poor  Mr.  Churchill !  So  far  as  fame  and 
external  success  were  concerned,  his  life  cer 
tainly  was  a  failure.  He  was,  perhaps,  too 
deeply  freighted,  too  much  laden  by  the 
head,  to  ride  the  waves  gracefully.  Every 
sea  broke  over  him,  —  he  was  half  the  time 
under  water  ! 

All  his  defects  and  mortifications  he  attrib 
uted  to  the  outward  circumstances  of  his  life, . 
the  exigencies  of  his  profession,  the  accidents 
of  chance.  But,  in  reality,  they  lay  much 
deeper  than  this.  They  were  within  himself. 
He  wanted  the  all-controlling;  all-subduing 
will.  He  wanted  the  fixed  purpose  that 
sways  and  bends  all  circumstances  to  its 
uses,  as  the  wind  bends  the  reeds  and  rushes 
beneath  it. 

In  a  few  minutes,  and  in  that  broad  style  of 
handling,  in  which  nothing  is  distinctly  de 
fined,  but  everything  clearly  suggested,  Kav- 
anagh  sketched  to  his  friends  his  three  years' 
life  in  Italy  and  the  East.  And  then,  turning 
to  Mr.  Churchill,  he  said,  — 

"  And  you,  my  friend,  —  what  have  you 
been  doing  all  this  while  ?  You  have  written 
to  me  so  rarely  that  I  have  hardly  kept  pace 
with  you.  But  I  have  thought  of  you  con- 


1 82  Kavanagh 

stantly.  In  all  the  old  cathedrals  ;  in  all  the 
lovely  landscapes,  among  the  Alps  and  Apen 
nines  ;  in  looking  down  on  Duomo  d'Ossola  ; 
at  the  Inn  of  Baveno ;  at  Gaeta ;  at  Naples ;  in 
old  and  mouldy  Rome ;  in  older  Egypt ;  in  the 
Holy  Land ;  in  all  galleries  and  churches  and 
ruins  ;  in  our  rural  retirement  at  Fiesoli ;  — 
whenever  I  have  seen  anything  beautiful,  I 
have  thought  of  you,  and  of  how  much  you 
would  have  enjoyed  it !  " 

Mr.  Churchill  sighed ;  and  then,  as  if,  with 
a  touch  as  masterly,  he  would  draw  a  picture 
that  should  define  nothing,  but  suggest  every 
thing,  he  said,  — 

"  You  have  no  children,  Kavanagh ;  we  have 
five." 

"  Ah,  so  many  already ! "  exclaimed  Kav 
anagh,  "  A  living  Pentateuch  !  A  beautiful 
Pentapylon,  or  five-gated  temple  of  Life  !  A. 
charming  number  ! " 

"  Yes","  answered  Mr.  Churchill ;  "  a  beauti 
ful  number  ;  Juno's  own  ;  the  wedding  of  the 
first  even  and  first  uneven  numbers ;  the  num 
ber  sacred  to  marriage,  but  having  no  reference, 
direct  or  indirect,  to  the  Pythagorean  novitiate 
of  five  years  of  silence." 

"No;  it  certainly  is  not  the  vocation  of  chil- 


A    Tale  183 

dren  to  be  silent/'  said  Kavanagh,  laughing. 
"  That  would  be  out  of  nature  ;  saving  always 
the  children  of  the  brain,  which  do  not  often 
make  so  much  noise  in  the  world  as  we  desire. 
I  hope  a  still  larger  family  of  these  has  grown 
up  around  you  during  my  absence." 

"  Quite  otherwise,"  answered  the  schoolmas 
ter,  sadly.  "My  brain  has  been  almost  barren 
of  songs.  I  have  only  been  trifling ;  and  I  am 
afraid,  that,  if  I  play  any  longer  with  Apollo, 
the  untoward  winds  will  blow  the  discus  of  the 
god  against  my  forehead,  and  strike  me  dead 
with  it,  as  they  did  Hyacinth  of  old." 

"And  your  Romance,  —  have  you  been  more 
successful  with  that  ?  I  hope  it  is  finished,  or 
nearly  finished  ? " 

"Not  yet  begun,"  said  Mr.  Churchill.  "The 
plan  and  characters  still  remain  vague  and  in 
definite  in  my  mind.  I  have  not  even  found  a 
name  for  it." 

"  That  you  can  determine  after  the  book  is 
written,"  suggested  Kavanagh.  "You  can 
name  it,  for  instance,  as  the  old  Heimskringla 
was  named,  from  the  initial  word  of  the  first 
chapter." 

"  Ah  !  that  was  very  well  in  the  olden  time, 
and  in  Iceland,  when  there  were  no  quarter- 


1 84  Kavanagh 

ly  reviews.      It  would  be   called   affectation 
now." 

"  I  see  you  still  stand  a  little  in  awe  of  opin 
ion.  Never  fear  that.  The  strength  of  criti 
cism  lies  only  in  the  weakness  of  the  thing 
criticised." 

"  That  is  the  truth,  Kavanagh  ;  and  I  am 
more  afraid  of  deserving  criticism  than  of  re 
ceiving  it.  I  stand  in  awe  of  my  own  opin 
ion.  The  secret  demerits  of  which  we  alone, 
perhaps,  are  conscious,  are  often  more  difficult 
to  bear  than  those  which  have  been  publicly 
censured  in  us,  and  thus  in  some  degree 
atoned  for. " 

"  I  will  not  say, "  replied  Kavanagh,  "  that 
humility  is  the  only  road  to  excellence,  but 
I  am  sure  that  it  is  one  road." 

"Yes,  humility;  but  not  humiliation,"  sighed 
Mr.  Churchill,  despondingly.  "  As  for  excel 
lence,  I  can  only  desire  it  and  dream  of  it ;  I 
cannot  attain  to  it ;  it  lies  too  far  from  me  ;  I 
cannot  reach  it.  These  very  books  about  me 
here,  that  once  stimulated  me  to  action,  have 
now  become  my  accusers.  They  are  my  Eu- 
menides,  and  drive  me  to  despair." 

"  My  friend,"  said  Kavanagh,  after  a  short 
pause,  during  which  he  had  taken  note  of  Mr. 


A   Tale  185 

Churchill's  sadness,  "  that  is  not  always  exccl- 
ent  which  lies  far  away  from  us.  What  is 
remote  and  difficult  of  access  we  are  apt  to 
overrate  ;  what  is  really  best  for  us  lies  always 
within  our  reach,  though  often  overlooked. 
To  speak  frankly,  I  am  afraid  this  is  the  case 
with  your  Romance.  You  are  evidently  grasp 
ing  at  something  which  lies  beyond  the  con 
fines  of  your  own  experience,  and  which, 
consequently,  is  only  a  play  of  shadows  in 
the  realm  of  fancy.  The  figures  have  no  vi 
tality  ;  they  are  only  outward  shows,  wanting 
inward  life.  We  can  give  to  others  only  what 
we  have." 

"  And  if  we  have  nothing  worth  giving  ? " 
interrupted  Mr.  Churchill. 

"  No  man  is  so  poor  as  that.  As  well 
might  the  mountain  streamlets  say  they  have 
nothing  worth  giving  to  the  sea,  because  they 
are  not  rivers.  Give  what  you  have.  To 
some  one,  it  may  be  better  than  you  dare  to 
think.  If  you  had  looked  nearer  for  the  ma 
terials  of  your  Romance,  and  had  set  about  it 
in  earnest,  it  would  now  have  been  finished. " 

"  And  burned,  perhaps,  "  interposed  Mr. 
Churchill ;  "  or  sunk  with  the  books  of  Simon 
Magus  to  the  bottom  of  the  Dead  Sea. " 


1 86  Kavanagh 

"At  all  events,  you  would  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  writing  it.  I  remember  one  of 
the  old  traditions  of  Art,  from  which  you 
may  perhaps  draw  a  moral.  When  Raphael 
desired  to  paint  his  Holy  Family,  for  a  long 
time  he  strove  in  vain  to  express  the  idea  that 
filled  and  possessed  his  soul.  One  morning, 
as  he  walked  beyond  the  city  gates,  meditat 
ing  the  sacred  theme,  he  beheld,  sitting  be 
neath  a  vine  at  her  cottage  door,  a  peasant 
woman,  holding  a  boy  in  her  arms,  while 
another  leaned  upon  her  knee,  and  gazed  at 
the  approaching  stranger.  The  painter  found 
here,  in  real  life,  what  he  had  so  long  sought 
for  in  vain  in  the  realms  of  his  imagination  ; 
and  quickly,  with  his  chalk  pencil,  he  sketched, 
upon  the  head  of  a  wine-cask  that  stood  near 
them,  the  lovely  group,  which  afterwards,  when 
brought  into  full  perfection,  became  the  tran 
scendent  Madonna  della  Seggiola." 

"All  this  is  true,"  replied  Mr.  Churchill, 
"  but  it  gives  me  no  consolation.  I  now  de 
spair  of  writing  anything  excellent.  I  have  no 
time  to  devote  to  meditation  and  study.  My 
life  is  given  to  others,  and  to  this  destiny  I 
submit  without  a  murmur ;  for  I  have  the  sat 
isfaction  of  having  labored  faithfully  in  my 


A    Tale  187 

calling,  and  of  having  perhaps  trained  and 
incited  others  to  do  what  I  shall  never  do. 
Life  is  still  precious  to  me  for  its  many  uses, 
of  which  the  writing  of  books  is  but  one. 
I  do  not  complain,  but  accept  this  destiny, 
and  say,  with  that  pleasant  author,  Marcus 
Antoninus,  'Whatever  is  agreeable  to  thee 
shall  be  agreeable  to  me,  O  graceful  Uni 
verse  !  nothing  shall  be  to  me  too  early  or 
too  late,  which  is  seasonable  to  thee  !  What 
ever  thy  seasons  bear  shall  be  joyful  fruit  to 
me,  O  Nature !  from  thee  are  all  things ; 
in  thee  they  subsist  ;  to  thee  they  return. 
Could  one  say,  Thou  dearly  beloved  city  of 
Cecrops  ?  and  wilt  thou  not  say,  Thou  dearly 
beloved  city  of  God  ? ' ' 

"  Amen  ! "  said  Kavanagh.  "  And,  to  fol 
low  your  quotation  with  another,  '  The  gale 
that  blows  from  God  we  must  endure,  toiling 
but  not  repining. ' ' 

Here  Mrs.  Churchill,  who  had  something  of 
Martha  in  her,  as  well  as  of  Mary,  and  had 
left  the  room  when  the  conversation  took  a 
literary  turn,  came  back  to  announce  that  din 
ner  was  ready,  and  Kavanagh,  though  warmly 
urged  to  stay,  took  his  leave,  having  first  ob 
tained  from  the  Churchills  the  promise  of  a 
visit  to  Cecilia  during  the  evening:. 


1 88  Kavanagh 

"  Nothing  done  !  nothing  done  ! "  exclaimed 
he,  as  he  wended  his  way  homeward,  musing 
and  meditating.  "And  shall  all  these  lofty 
aspirations  end  in  nothing  ?  Shall  the  arms 
be  thus  stretched  forth  to  encircle  the  uni 
verse,  and  come  back  empty  against  a  bleed 
ing,  aching  breast  ? " 

And  the  words  of  the  poet  came  into  his 
mind,  and  he  thought  them  worthy  to  be  writ 
ten  in  letters  of  gold,  and  placed  above  every 
door  in  every  house,  as  a  warning,  a  sugges 
tion,  an  incitement :  — 

"  Stay,  stay  the  present  instant ! 
Imprint  the  marks  of  wisdom  on  its  wings  ! 
O,  let  it  not  elude  thy  grasp,  but  like 
The  good  old  patriarch  upon  record, 
Hold  the  fleet  angel  fast  until  he  bl««s  thee  1 " 





